Little Aragorn
by Marhgana
Summary: The Dúnedain have all but disappeared. Thirty-nine generations after Isildur, a star will rise... not only for his people, but for all the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. Evil shall pursue him, so all the forces of Light must rally to bring him to manhood.
1. This Child is Ordained

LITTLE ARAGORN

Chapter One: _This Child is Ordained_

Her time upon her, Gilraen could barely sleep. Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain, watched over his young wife's troubled rest, searching her fine features. As night deepened she looked up at him, eyes wide, and said, "It is time, my lord. The child is nigh."

"Be you blessed, my love," said Arathorn. He went swiftly to the door and lifted the curtain. "Lynael," he called, "it is time." He returned to Gilraen and sat with her, smiling anxiously.

Lynael, the elf-midwife, came in with two steaming kettles. She poured the hot water into a bathing tub, and added the contents of a little vial from her pocket. She went to Gilraen and took her hands. "Arise, my lady. Make yourself ready, and be not afraid. All will go well. And you, my lord," she said to Arathorn, "you as well need to prepare. This night brings joy to your people."

"I do implore the Valar that all go well." He moved to the curtained entrance.

"It will. This child is ordained. I foresee it," said Lynael, dropping her voice to a whisper. "This boy— for it is a boy, lady Gilraen— shall rise from utter hopelessness and bring his people to the end of an age. All hope is tied to him."

"Thus was spoken of Arvedui Last-King, over a thousand years ago," muttered Gilraen as she lowered her swollen body into the warm, fragrant bath. "And look what came of it. The choice of the Dúnedain: a wrong choice, and sorely paid for."

"Yet Arnor and Gondor will unite. They must, if your two kingdoms are to survive the coming war." The elf-midwife hummed as she unrolled a bundle of cloth pieces, and finally held up an exquisite broidered band. "For his belly," she smiled. "Every stitch has been sewn with a breath of prayer. To gird his will and keep him from weakness and temptation."

"My poor baby," whispered Gilraen. "Your every step seems already determined."

"It is, in truth," said Lynael seriously. "This will not be your little boy for long. You must bring forth other children, to mother and keep by your side. Best there be some girls, too," she finished with a smile. She put one hand on the belly and one on Gilraen's chest, closed her eyes and kept count silently. "All is well," she said. "Come and walk a bit. Breathe."

Minutes passed, the women stepping purposefully in slow circles around the room, counting silently and moving their hands smoothly over invisible globes around them. Arathorn slipped through the doorway with a small bundle in his arms. He sat to one side and watched them, making his own quiet prayers. The curtain moved again, and Ivorwen, mother-in-law, came to him and sat by his side. "It goes well," she said, not in question. He nodded, and she patted his hand. "O happy night, my son. Our hope cometh."

Suddenly Gilraen straightened up stiffly, fear in her eyes. "Now," she said, "I feel it coming down, like a ball…"

Lynael took her by both ears and held her gaze, saying, "Now, my lady, we know what to do. No fear, no pain, no weakness. Sit in the chair and let it come down. Do not fight it. All is well." She beckoned to Ivorwen. Between them they settled Gilraen into the birthing chair, and only then did Arathorn take his place at the midwife's side. He began a barely whispered chant, soothing, sweet and hopeful.

Gilraen panted like a fleeing animal, and then blew. Thus she had so often rehearsed her lessons, and now that the hour was truly come, she found it all falling into place. "I am together with this," she breathed, "come now, come now, my child." She panted again and blew. "I need to push," she said to Lynael. "May I?"

Lynael stooped and felt between Gilraen's legs. "A moment more, my lady. Breathe, breathe, pant, blow. Ivorwen, take her hands, give her strength. Ready, ready, now… here he comes… now, lady, take air and push with all your might!"

All four strained with one long groan, and suddenly there seemed to sound an audible pop. Lynael barely gasped, "Breathe!" and crouched to feel the baby's head and neck. She shuddered in joy, whispering, "good, good, clear…now, one shoulder…and… push again, lady, but less forcefully…"

Gilraen took air again and began a careful push. Arathorn held out a fine white cloth, his chant rising to reveal holy words and ancient promises. All at once, the tiny boy slipped free into the elf lady's hands, his eyes opened wide and his hands groping. "Yes!" she cried, "a boy, as I told you, my lady!"

Arathorn reached under his son and allowed the little back to settle into his great palms. "My son," he whispered, and kissed the wet head. "Aragorn, by the grace of Elbereth, be welcome." He held the baby carefully while Lynael saw to the cord. At her sign, he lifted the tiny beloved burden and brought it to Gilraen's breast. "Your son, my lady, your fine little son, and I thank you with all my heart." The new mother took her child, joy lighting her fair face with beauty seldom seen outside a birthing room. Mother, father and grandmother bent their heads over the little Aragorn, whispering and laughing in joyful wonder, while Lynael held the cord and counted the pulse beats. As they slowed to a halt, she took a small cloth and wiped the infant's nostrils. Gurgling and coughing, he breathed on his own, trying out new lungs, mewing little sounds.

"Now, my lord Arathorn, the cord is still. Gestation is done. You must take the knife and slice through all three strands, here between my fingers. Quickly." Arathorn took up the knife prepared for the act and brought it to bear against the cord. "Set him free," whispered Lynael with a smile. The knife sliced through the braided flesh, which promptly contracted and sucked its edges together. "See? No blood. All is well. Now tie this strip here, around the cord, two fingers from his belly. There, good." The three watched anxiously as Lynael took the little Aragorn into her arms. "Now soothe your lady, my lord. She must prepare for one last push, a small one. In a moment, after I bind the young master's belly, so… yes, my precious boy, yes..." She skilfully wrapped the broidered band, then several cloth pads and wrappings. A final kiss, and she gave into Ivorwen's arms a neat package. "Now, my lady, let us finish this fine business. My lord Arathorn, if you please, make ready the copper bowl. Now, lady, breathe and push, one more time."

xxx

When Lynael took the copper vessel with its bloody contents to the fireside, the others went on to perform the rituals of the royal birth. Gilraen held the child on her breast while Arathorn took from a small chest a brilliant white gem and passed it across the baby's forehead. "The Star of the Dúnedain will shine forth from your brow." Tiny replicas of a writing stylus, a sword, a lyre, and a bridle were placed one by one for an instant between the baby's palms, each with its own incantation, and finally a single fragrant _athelas_ leaf, as Arathorn and Gilraen whispered together, _"…come athelas, come athelas, life to the dying, in the king's hand lying…"_

The rite was over, the implements were placed once again in the chest, and the baby sought his mother's breast, rooting like a hungry little animal. "Very good," said Lynael, bringing from the fire a smoking bowl. "And you must eat as well, my lady. This, your very own soup. Drink." She handed Gilraen the bowl, smiling at the young woman's obvious reluctance. "My lady, if you were a beast in the wild, you would eat it just as it came. This, on the contrary, is very tasty and will set you on the path to a quick and full recovery. And the child needs it as well."

Gilraen sipped carefully and laughed. "It is flavourful indeed. Who would say…" She drank it down and handed back the bowl. "Is there more?"

"No, my lady, this is sufficient. Rest now, and your dear mother will sit with you. I shall return later." She beckoned to Arathorn. "I must speak with you at once, my lord." He rose and followed her to the entrance, lifted the curtain and went out.

They walked down a passage and came to a wide doorway, opening on the cold night air. "Tell me," said Arathorn. "What is it?"

"I read the afterbirth carefully before making the soup, my lord. There were signs in it that I have not seen in all the generations of your house that I have brought into the world. Which are how many, including yourself?" Lynael smiled, then became once again serious. "The little Aragorn will turn the fate not only of his own people, but of all the races in Middle Earth. His load will be greater than any since your long father Elendil. The choices of Isildur, Eärendur and Arvedui, and the errors of Gondor, will be reversed by his efforts. This I foresee. And more: from the far distant shadows of the past, I have seen Tinuviel and Erchamion; thus the greatness of his doom." Arathorn, much impressed, said nothing. "There is much to do, my lord."

The chieftain shook himself. "What must we do, wise mother? I have counsel with Master Elrond, and the Dúnedain ride tirelessly with Rivendell against the servants of the Enemy, wherever we find them. What more would you have us do?"

"The Dúnedain are still the flower of the race of Men, and more so these, you, the men and women of the North. You alone have kept true the bloodline and the legacy of Elendil, and before him, of Elros Tar-Minyatur. But you are so few…" Lynael let her view trace over the wide plains under the starlight.

"Our scarce numbers have yet allowed us to melt into the land. Rangers we are, and even the Enemy has not linked us to Arnor, or even Arthedain. Long has he thought to have swept us from the country, from the very land of the living. And when we ride with the High Brethren, he cannot tell man from elf." Arathorn, too, searched the dark plain. "So, tell me, what is it that we must do?"

"Aragorn must have his kindred, many brothers and cousins. They must be conceived and born now, soon, this year and the next, and those following. You must prepare the Dúnedain for their return. Aragorn must have men. There will be much to do. Each of you, brave and hardy men, must raise not one son but three, or four, and yet make every last one a full-skilled Ranger. This is my counsel to you: bid your men take wives, if they have not, and your women to make a child at once. Twice, thrice the count of the Dúnedain, and let them grow with him, little Aragorn." Lynael drew a deep breath. "Now this can be done in hope, for our hope has in truth arrived. This is a fine day, my lord…"


	2. Aragorn the Second

Chapter Two:_Aragorn the Second_

Ivorwen and Gilraen settled into the deep bed, cradling the infant between them. His every move and sound were astonishing to them, and they could not keep from poking him softly, stroking his tiny hands, kissing him with tiny kisses. Soon he slept, well-fed, at peace with his world.

"You should sleep a bit yourself, my daughter. From this day on, your rest will come in bits and scraps, so follow his lead and let me watch you both, my treasures, my two little loves…" She caressed her daughter's face and tucked her coverlet in around her shoulders.

"I will close my eyes, mother," said Gilraen, "I am so happy…" She trailed off with a sigh. Ivorwen gazed at them for a bit, then began to sing softly.

_Swift as a deer, sweet as a rose_

_Water so clear, twinkle your toes_

_Sun, moon and star, song to begin_

_Call from afar, she'll bring us in. _

"She will, I promise," she whispered to the infant. "Call her, she will never fail. From this day, I place you in her care, in her grace, A Elbereth Gilthoniel."

Arathorn raised the curtain and came to the bed. "They are sleeping, both, so sweetly and may it be dreamless," he said. He settled carefully across the foot of the bed. "I am full of joy and grateful, mother. But there is somewhat heavy on my mind from the lady Lynael."

"Not some harm to the boy, or to Gilraen?" asked Ivorwen uneasily.

"No, not harm to them or to anyone," he said. "But a great upheaval of our ways until now, mother. Lynael says we must prepare to end the days of our silence, and come forth as who we are. Claim our right, she says, and I am willing. But..."

"But...?"

"She says we are too few. We must call our men to marry quickly, those that have not yet a wife, and our women must bring forth children this year and each year following until our numbers have doubled and tripled. And yet each child must be raised and nurtured with no less than we have ever. So there is much to do."

"I understand her counsel. Aragorn will not be a lonely child."

"No. And he will come to manhood with many Rangers at his command. His own, his brothers, his blood. But our people will wonder! Such a plan, they will wonder."

"Perhaps not, my son," mused Ivorwen. "The reasoning is sound, and even a little thought will bring light to questioning minds. And the charge is enjoyable, is it not?" Ivorwen's eyes sparkled. "This will be a year of feasting... though more of the spirit than of the flesh, because we must begin to store. We will now be feeding many more growing and hungry children. Yes, we have much to do. Elbereth, send thy light."

xxx

The months grew towards summer, and like tiny blooms in the wasteland, grew one by one the number of the Dúnedain. The men, obedient ever but now inspired by their chieftain and his exhilarant mood, hurried their courtships and pleaded their cases. Not one woman of marrying age remained unwed by midsummer, and as the season for gathering approached many were already bearing their very own fruits: the harvest that year was plentiful. A score of tiny babies totalled by the end of the winter, and Aragorn at his first year was surrounded by tots crawling, rolling and teetering, others asleep in mothers' arms, some weeping, many laughing, more than one screeching away in tuneless song.

It was a good time, such as the people of Eriador had never known, nor had their ancestors for generations. Hunting and gathering had gone well, stores were building up, gone was the silence from the homes of the invisible Rangers. It is well that our valley is so hidden and so well guarded, said some, for chatter and song are such that an enemy could be led to us by them. Yet the din was blessed and beloved, and family ties were bonded that year, as Lynael had advised.

And yet the warriors were often away for days, riding down and finishing bands of marauding orcs that came ever down from the Misty Mountains. The brethren Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond, led the raids over the foothills and into secret dells, by night and by day, and counselled with the elders among the Dúnedain. After one raid, some better weapons had been recovered and it had been noted that some of the orcs seemed larger. "Coming perhaps from beyond, over the high passes," said Elladan. "We have not word of what runs along the eastern slopes, north of the Dimrill Stair."

"What is certain, indeed, is that the Enemy is stirring," added Elrohir. "Our father has brought us this vision from the Wise: that all roads must be watched, yet our watchers themselves unnoticed."

"This is ever our lives' task," said Arathorn, "but we will redouble our efforts." His thought strayed to the rooms above in the stone fortress. "I will leave you now, but food and drink will be brought soon. Be at peace, my brothers." He was out the door before any answer could reach him.

xxx

Not that any would have stayed him. He ran up the last stairs to the wide hall, and stopped at his chamber door. As always he let this instant grow long, swell, holding his breath, then pushed the heavy door open. "Dada!" screamed a small boy joyfully, jumping up and running to leap into his father's arms.

"My son, my big boy!" laughed Arathorn, bouncing the child and swinging him around to his shoulders. "Where is my boy's pony? Where is Aragorn's fine horse?"

"Pony, pony!" clamoured Aragorn. "Go, pony, run, run!" Father and son roared and giggled, crossing the room in leaps and bounds, and finally collapsing at the feet of the ladies. "Momo," cried the boy happily, stroking Gilraen's knees as she rose to enter the huge embrace of her husband's arms.

"The Valar be praised, my lord," she muffled into his shoulder. "Your step across this threshold is the sun rising in my heart." He held her more tightly, while the boy picked at the great knife in its sheath at Arathorn's side.

"Big knife, big knife, Aragorn," he said, laughing. "Dada, big knife." He pulled again at the hilt, bound with leather cord, and finally managed to loosen the blade. Before the boy could draw it out, Arathorn took it himself and brought it to the light.

"Here, my son," he said, pulling Aragorn close and turning the blade to catch the firelight. "The big knife. It will be yours someday, as it is mine today and was my own father's. This knife has rested, worked and fought in the hand of each chieftain of the Dúnedain since the days of the first Aragorn…" The child looked at him in wonder. "Yes, my boy. You are Aragorn the Second, as I am Arathorn the Second. We were both named for great men of our own line." He put the knife back in its sheath and took from his pocket a small crystal globe, the size of an apple, blue as the first light of dawn. "For you, my lord Aragorn," he said, handing it to the child. "Put it your eye and see what you can see." The little boy took the crystal and turned it in his hands, as if taken by something in its depths. "Hold it to the light, like so…"

"My lord…" Gilraen stroked his long, black hair, still untouched by gray. "Would you be wanting a bite and a drink? Would you join me at the table?"

"Indeed, my lady." He rose and kissed her hand, holding it to his breast as he took her by the waist and sought the alcove beyond. "I do hunger, for meat and for sweets and for the sweetest of sweets which is yourself, my love…" They sat at the table in the alcove, close together, and as they heaped and emptied platters, and filled and drained cups of ale, tales of the days were told, songs were sung, news mulled over, their son's tiny stories cheered at. The tireless child came and went, stopping to examine anything through his blue globe, chattering endlessly.

As the meal ended and the fire died down, so did the boy finally nod off sleepily in a big cushioned chair. Ivorwen came and took him in her arms, and carried him off to sleep with her, for that night should belong to the chieftain and his lady alone. "The stars themselves know how she has longed for his return. Something is stirring in her heart, I can feel… Many signs have appeared to her, though she has not said what they might portend, and I haven't the heart to question her." She smiled and kissed her sleeping grandson. "Perhaps they mean to make another child. More and more babies are coming, and our lord and lady should not lag behind. Nor do they need much instruction in this matter, I believe," she laughed softly as she tucked herself and the boy into the warm bed.

xxx

It seemed these very thoughts were shared by Arathorn and Gilraen over their last evening cups of ale. "Our lady mother always knows what we want before we do ourselves, is it not so?" he said, stretching his long legs towards the fire. "She took the boy so we could have our bed for us alone. Not that his little sleeping body is a bother to me, nor his early morning singsongs…"

"To be sure, come morning he will fly in on us with a great leap and bellow," she said with a smile. "And you must take him on Rogarin with you. He has not let up on the pony story since you left, and you know he can call every horse by name. Every day he begs and begs us until we take him to the stables to visit his pony friends. Bits of bread and apples and whatnot he saves for them, and they lap up their tidbits from his little hands. He surely has a way with animals. Like his father…" She settled close to him and her hand strayed over his chest. "I love thee, my strong oak tree," she whispered. "I am a song plucked from my harp by thy fingertips…"

"You are a goddess, or the daughter of a goddess..." whispered Arathorn. "I see it when you stand before the fire with your long hair tumbling down. I hear it in your song, I feel it in your twirling body in your dance, and here, in this dance with me…" He held her close.

"It is time," she said softly.

"Time for…?" his question remained floating between their close faces.

"Aragorn must have brothers of his full blood, and sisters. My body is strong and hungry for more babies, and this little one is already beyond me. As if he knew he belongs to everybody." She sighed, not unhappily. "I believe you have much work to do, plowing here in my field."

Arathorn laughed softly. "There have been many times when my chieftainship has weighed heavily on me, and I have wished myself a simple ranger in the wild. I vow, however, that this is not one of them: to make a dynasty of princes in your sweet body is the task closest to what life in the Blessed Realm surely is…"

"Yet there must be no confusion," said Gilraen gravely, searching Arathorn's smiling eyes. "Aragorn alone is Chieftain of the Dúnedain, King of Arnor and Gondor in his right. Though ten brothers may come, they must know from the cradle that only our firstborn shall inherit… what little we have left…" she trailed off miserably.

"How now, brightest of my stars! What is this sadness at this time?" Arathorn still smiled, but seemed to search the air around them. "What do you feel?"

"I feel no danger in what is, and perhaps I only wish to foreclose any doubt as to the line of inheritance. We must never forget that the downfall of Arnor came when Eärendur ruled as a loving father but not as a wise king, dividing the realm in three and giving one parcel to each of his beloved sons…"

"But he did not, my lady," interposed Arathorn. "The brothers themselves settled on that division after Eärendur's death."

"Let us not be innocent, my Arathorn. He must have foreseen it. He did not prepare our long forefather Amlaith for the kingship and he did not prepare his other sons for its upholding, therefore he allowed this pass of things. His sons were good brothers, perhaps, holding each other dear and loyal to the death…but they were not equal in their life's calling, and they should have known: only one could be king blessed by the Valar," Gilraen stared thoughtfully into the fire, as if she saw there the distant events taking place. "We are not as our far brethren the First-Born, the Elves, who rule kingdoms for hundreds of years without change; our generations pass quickly. And so did they in Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhuradur, and when the day soon came that the bloodline failed in Rhuradur, there was not the will to reunite the rule of the land under the sons of Elendil's lineage. Others had seized power, directed by the hand of our Enemy…" Gilraen trailed off, her eyes haunted by fear of the Shadow.

"You are totally right, my queen," said Arathorn. "I marvel always at your far vision, but I would set your fears to rest. Aragorn shall be raised and trained as chieftain, to begin soon. His letters, along with his physical prowess with horse and sword. Long lessons in history, much study of such maps as we have, the languages of the realm and beyond; even the language of the Enemy, never to speak aloud but to train his ear for a time of need. There will be many times when he will want to play, as the other children do, and he will not. His books and his teachers, they will come first. Even his harp may await him at times in loneliness, coming finally to his hand only at the evening fire." He looked at her and smiled. "As children, no one will envy Aragorn his inheritance. When they are grown and come to realize his sovereignty, all will understand his worth, and remember the years of plowing and weeding he put in."

"And he must know from the start that his friendships and loves will be subject to his state. Poor dear, he belongs to his people even now…" sighed Gilraen. "And no one little friend may become bosom boyhood companion. A just king may have no favorite if he is to love and be loved by his people. Even his choice of wife is a matter to be considered by the council of our family heads, and advised by our Eldar brethren."

"At least now, in our time, we have learned much of what the kingship truly is," mused Arathorn. "How dearly we have paid, over hundreds and even thousands of years, the abuse of kingly power. Now our cities lie in ruin among tall grasses, our wealth scattered, our people fewer and fewer. We have had to disappear from memory itself and grow back in secret, waiting between hope and fear. Until now," he added, smiling once again. "These years that come fast will be full of changes. There are already changes. Good ones."

"The crop of Dúnedain babies, you mean," teased Gilraen. "Well, we must get on with it. No one must say that the chieftain and his lady are falling behind…"

"Ah, sweet wench," he growled. "You make my blood flame…" They kissed intensely, hands searching bodies, pulling at strings and buckles.

"Come, my love," she panted. "It is time."

As the fire burned low and became barely coals, so the lovers' passion. When they fell finally into delicious sleep, there was, perhaps, already, a tiny soul seeking to become flesh in Gilraen's body. Perhaps. No one, now, will ever know.


	3. Wolfpup

Chapter Three: _Wolf-pup_

The days following were so full of joy and bustle as never before. Aragorn's very first lessons were indeed begun, for his little body was growing daily strong and agile, and his bright childish mind was ever groping for puzzles and wonders. Arathorn took him daily on his great horse Rogarin, and the child screamed in delight at each leap and turn. He was never afraid, for he was bound to his father's immense solid body, and slowly grew to be one with the saddle.

"Soon he will be galloping across the moors by himself," said Arathorn proudly as he lowered the boy into his mother's arms. He dismounted and followed the chattering pair, considering the choice of a foal this year for his son's mount. "In three years' time," he counted, "a small boy can ride a grown colt. They must be together always, at work and at play, so they will bond from infancy. With this colt shall he grow into a horseman, and from its line he will choose all of his mounts in the years to come. As my Rogarin, come from the bloodline of the great-hearted Starseeker, my boyhood companion. Yes, indeed, a grave choice: this of his foal."

They entered the great hall, where tables were set with platters and flagons, and hungry happy kinfolk streamed in to find a seat amid the bustle of the coming meal. The three took their places at the table raised on a higher platform, and basins of steaming perfumed water were brought.

"Yes, my love, you must cleanse your face and hands, like so…" Gilraen firmly directed the reluctant child's motions, adding her swipes of the washcloth to his own. "See? I do, so, and your father as well."

"Don't clean hands in the wild," muttered the boy.

"Aragorn must eat with clean hands at the table," said his mother. "We all do so, and chew slowly with our mouths closed. We wipe our lips and cheeks with the cloth, see? Take little bites, my son."

Father and son exchanged glances, Arathorn winked, and Aragorn settled down to his meal. Fine roasted meats, breads with herbs, and platters of nuts and apples, cheeses and cream and butter, pitchers of milk, pots of honey. "Such a feast," said Arathorn. "Do we not save for days to come?"

"We do, my lord," retorted the good cook Agadil as she offered him a bowl of sweet cakes. "This feast is in thanks for our plentiful harvest and overflowing larders. Joy and thanks, my lord, we have many reasons for them." She moved on, laughing at the calls her way from neighboring tables.

"Tomorrow we shall start looking for Aragorn's right pony," said the chieftain through his dripping drumstick. "Are you ready, my son?" he teased, poking the boy's ribs.

The child stopped dead still with the bite halfway to his lips. His eyes were wide, and a tear seemed to tremble in the deep gray pools. "Aragorn's pony…" he whispered. He shot up suddenly. "Aragorn's pony!" he bellowed. "Aragorn's pony Aragorn's pony Aragorn's pony…" he leaped from the table dais and galloped around the hall, circling every table and buzzing his magic chant until the entire company was in a hilarious, joyous uproar.

"There has not been a horseman such as this will be," sentenced an old leathery-faced Ranger. "A deep stream of spirit flows from a great rider to his mount, and back. Any horse feels it, and welcomes the nearness of one, but only with his very own noble beast does a great horseman reach the heights of understanding. Not unlike the love of one's very own wife," he finished laughingly, while he caressed the hand of the lady at his side, still handsome in her autumn years.

"Better than the passing love of any poor wench, I'll wager," she quipped back amid the laughter at her table. "Come, little master," she caught the boy in her arms as he sailed by, hooting and whooping. "Tell us about Aragorn's right pony."

The child's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes were amazing. "One pony, one little, little pony for Aragorn," he explained, now totally serious. "One little pony, one little boy. One big pony, one big boy. Friends. Always friends, always… together," he said with a frowning effort, helping his words with vivid gestures from his small hands.

His parents watched from their seats, as all the company felt the love flowing for their little prince, their pride in his brightness. Their deep awareness of his great heart. The rising star of hope…finally, at last.

Only Agadil watched from the doorway with a tiny flutter in her breast. "One should be so happy…" she said. "And now it seems we have so much to lose…" She shrugged and tossed off her scrap of darkness. "Silly sallies, nothing doing," she sang loudly. "Who can eat another cake, my fine feasters? Growing cold in my basket, such a shame, I say…" she laughed gaily on her way around the rounds, once more, once again, until the final bite was done and all had risen to seek their bloated rest by a homefire. Many herb teas were already brewing, to soothe their way into unhungry stomachs that would otherwise never get a moment's relief through the long, overfed night. The Dúnedain would survive the unaccustomed banquet, never dreaming that many years would pass before any such were ever seen again.

xxx

And so it came to pass that the very height of the Dúnedain's hope had been reached, and perhaps would have truly climbed ever higher, when a dark shot unseen and unlooked-for claimed the day and turned the bright path of Elendil's people back into the shadows of the forest and the silence of the caves.

Two days before the orc arrow pierced his eye and sent him on his final, lonely journey, Arathorn rose early from his bed, still a bit overstuffed from the grand meal at the thanksgiving banquet. He kissed Gilraen softly, and she half-waked to smile sleepily. "So late last night with the feverish children…" she muttered in apology. "I didn't hear you rise… Are you going already?"

"Sshh, my sweet. Sleep on. This is a short tour of inspection, and we will return within the week. This fever, is it bad? Aragorn…?" he questioned, more casually than he truly felt.

"It is of no great concern. A bit of rash, some fever, and they must stay abed for some few days. All children pass through this illness, but some go down harder. Aragorn showed a handful of red spots, a touch of fever for one day, and that was all. A hardy boy, our son…" she finished with a happy smile.

"Every day he is more and more the brightest child I have ever seen," mused Arathorn proudly. "When I return, we will go fetch his foal. Tell him for me, as he sleeps still and I hardly want to wake him." The chieftain looked down on the sleeping boy in his little bed, and finally delivered a careful, brief kiss on the flushed forehead. "Are you certain he has no fever?" he said, picking up his gear.

"None at all, my love," Gilraen sat up. "Now kiss me as well, for a week is a long time to be without your hungry lips." She reached out for him, and his strong legs quaked with sudden desire at the sight of her half-naked body amid the tousled bedclothes, her laughing red mouth…

"Your sparkling naughty eyes," he mumbled into her neck as he embraced her fiercely and sought her lips, "I could easily not go at all…" Already he was loosening the straps that bound his sword-sheath and dagger to his body, and she laughed harder and pushed him away.

"Would you have the Rangers come knocking at our chamber door asking for their chieftain, and him entangled in his lady's legs and the bed-sheets?" she teased merrily and kissed him with little kisses all over his face. Suddenly serious, she said, "I love thee, my lord Arathorn. Go now, and return safely. I will seek for thee from the high window, one week hence."

"When I return, we shall be abed for ten days, and answer to none."

"When you return, I shall sing for thee a new song… perhaps…" she smiled secretly.

He reached the door and went out, barely stealing a glance back. She gestured _shoo-shoo_, and fell back happily on her pillows as the door closed with the smallest scrape. She blessed him with a thought, then searched her body lightly with her fingertips, seeking the truth of her heart's boding. "A daughter… could it be so…?" She smiled again, seeing in her mind's eye Arathorn beguiled by a tiny little girl. "Elbereth grant us this joy," she prayed.

Aragorn gurgled suddenly and laughed aloud, half-dreaming still and as always joyful at coming awake. "Day is come!" he crowed, his happy call of each morning.

Gilraen called to him. "Here, my little son. Come to me and sing the wolf-pup song," she begged in serious fun. Aragorn jumped from his bed to his parents', his daily leap from time unremembered, and hugged his mother like a playful monkey. They tussled for a bit, laughing fit to burst, until she finally surrendered. "The wolf-pup song," she demanded. "Sing."

Aragorn drew himself up, his expression grave at once. "Wolf-pup running in the wood," he sang, "come to me, come and play." He clapped twice and continued, "Wolf-pup splashing in the stream, wait for me, wait for me…" he made a small pouncing gesture, once and again, and sang on, "wolf-pup bite, wolf-pup lick, happy go play with me, every day," Gilraen joining in the final chorus, "happy go play with me, every daaaayyy…!" They collapsed in ecstasy, their breath gone to the last stretching note of the child's song. It was his first own composing, his mother's pride, a small piece of the legend already growing around him, far from his understanding.

"Where is Dada?" asked Aragorn, suddenly aware of his father's absence.

"He's gone riding with the Rangers, my son. He left you a message," she added quickly, seeing a cloud come over the child's face. "He said to tell you that when he returns you will go and fetch your pony. Your pony! Aragorn's pony!"

The boy lit up in high joy, and bounced on the bed shouting, "Pony, pony!" until she plumped him with a pillow and pinned him down.

"Let's go eat, Aragorn," said his mother. "You must be big and strong for your pony…"

"Pony! Pony!" the boy began again.

"Oh, goodness," said Gilraen, finally giving in. "There will be no peace until you are on that animal's back… And may he carry you ever safely, my son," she added seriously in a sudden afterthought. There seemed to be a sort of chill in the room, for a moment, and Gilraen quickly took the boy's hand and led him out.


	4. My Divine Gilraen's Boy

Chapter Four: _My Divine Gilraen's Boy_

Arathorn and the Rangers rode east toward the foothills. Outriders and scouts preceded the main force, and good time was made that day. The evening campfires were lit under crafty shrouds that kept them from view, and a pot of water was about to boil when the Eldar hunters arrived to join the band.

"Welcome, kinsmen," said Arathorn, as Elladan and Elrohir dropped their gear and came to his fireside. "Sit, and soon we shall swallow a warm drink."

"The nights grow cooler," said Elladan. "Soon the snows will cover the mountain passes. The orc-band we have been hunting may think to withdraw, and we will not see them again until quickening."

"It rails me to think they will have months to fatten up and mend their weapons," added Elrohir. "They will burrow into their tunnels in the high peaks, and pass the time swilling and stuffing and plotting havoc."

"To no avail, son of Elrond," said Arathorn. "We have kept them pressed into the mountains all this year, and their losses have been heavy. I, too, would see them finished to the last of them, ugly, foul brutes, before the frozen ground and cold winds drive us, as well, into winter hiding."

"How grows our little cousin, the lord Aragorn?" asked the twin wearing a red band across his forehead, Elladan, the chieftain thought.

"Ah," smiled Arathorn, "the boy… such a boy. All learning sweeps into him like a rushing river, and every day he comes forth with astounding displays of the workings of his bright mind, growing by leaps and bounds. He relates random pieces of lore and turns up conclusions unthought of. And he sings, all the time."

"Then he will bring better times to the Dúnedain," joked the other twin, perhaps Elrohir, "for the poor ear of the present chieftain has discouraged the minstrels' spirit of perfection, and few are ever called forward to perform."

"His love of music and grace of composing come from his mother," admitted Arathorn with a smile. "Of late he is singing a ditty of his own, about a wolf-pup he befriended in the forest."

"You jest," said the closer twin, "he has not seen three summers."

"And yet we have all learned the wolf-pup song," laughed Arathorn. "Even I, with my faulty ear."

"Well, we must have it," said the twin with no band. "Let's hear the wolf-pup song."

"Ah, no, my brothers, that can hardly be. You will give me no rest about my faulty ear and my voice like a snuffing bear." Arathorn laughed with them and took a friendly punch from the twin with the band, surely Elladan with that special stab in his blow, even in play.

"The brew, my lords," said the ranger tending the pot on the fire, "is ready. Shall I fill cups for you?"

"A warm welcome indeed," said a tall elf-warrior, coming into the ring of firelight. "I can feel my bone-marrow stirring in relief."

"Well-met, Master Glorfindel," said Arathorn, rising to embrace his princely mentor. He took a cup himself and placed it in the newcomer's hands. "I was resigned to being caught between the twins and their jesting, all on my own. Now perhaps you will aid me in evening out the odds…" There was laughter all around as lifelong comrades settled about the fire, drawing warmth from the cups of brew, sipping the fragrant liquid and nestling the hot metal vessels against their bodies.

"The wolf-pup song, Lord Arathorn," recalled the twin with the red band. "We must have it. I, myself, will not close an eyelid this night unless the query is settled."

"Not a great predicament, since you elves sleep with open eyes…if sleep is what you call it," laughed Arathorn in return.

"This query," asked Glorfindel, "to what does it concern?" He settled back comfortably in anticipation of an amusing pass. Though the Dúnedain chieftain, in his splendor of sixty years, seemed the oldest of the company, the twins still treated him at times like the boy they had only lately been instructing in arms and woodcraft.

"The chieftain claims to have fathered a brilliant bard," said the other twin.

"The little Aragorn is a precocious wolf-pup himself," declared the twin with the band, his eyes twinkling. "But to know is one thing and to contemplate proof is another. We must have the song, if you please, my lord."

"This song is…?" inquired Glorfindel with growing interest.

"My boy, my divine Gilraen's boy, sings from the very first months of his life, making tuneful sounds even before his first word was uttered," said Arathorn simply, his face glowing with loving pride. "Of late he has composed a small song of his own, about a wolf-pup he came upon in the woods one day that I took him riding."

"This doting father takes the boy on his great horse with him, lashed to his body, and gallops the moors without thought of danger," teased the twin with the band.

"The very way he learned himself with us," returned Glorfindel, "or did you not take him many a time on your own swift steed, before you on the saddle, bound safely to your own body, my Elladan?"

"Ha!" though the chieftain. "Elladan. I was right." Aloud he said, "So were we that day trotting under the low branches in the pine forest above a small stream that spills from the Hoarwell." His listeners nodded, and he continued. "A sudden yelp startled my Rogarin, followed by a torrent of fierce growls and furious yapping. Aragorn and I were as surprised as Rogarin, and even more so the tiny wolf-pup we had only barely missed stepping on. My goodness, but he was fierce! Aragorn, thrilled, begged to be put down, so I decided to give Rogarin a rest and see what was about with the pup.

"When he saw us coming at him, he turned and ran yelping into the bushes. Aragorn leaped after him, calling and whistling, and the pup fled to the stream and fell in, such was his anxiety to get away. He was already sinking, and the water was quite cold, when Aragorn reached the bank of the stream. Without a thought, he jumped down and fished the pup out, half-snarling and half-choking."

"And where were you, the father of the boy?" asked Glorfindel, half in jest.

"Watching from the bank," laughed Arathorn, "bent over with mirth, my friend… and so would you have," he finished, wiping his eyes.

"Go on, my lord," said Elrohir. "What came about then with the boy and the pup?"

"We took him and wrapped him in an old scarf. Aragorn dried him as he could, while I built a small fire. The poor little beast was quite withered, and fading quickly. So we forced a drop of cordial into his tiny jaws and put him near the fire, rubbing him vigorously all over… until he suddenly leapt up again barking, and bit my finger." Arathorn smiled and held up a finger with a small scar.

"And Aragorn?" asked Elladan.

"Aragorn pounced on him just before he got away, and brought him snarling back to the fire. He spoke to him firmly, something of a scolding, and… would you believe it?" said Arathorn. "The pup was cowed, perhaps, and subdued. He licked Aragorn's hand and made little whimpering sounds. I held my breath, I tell you…"

"That boy…" said the twins in the same breath. There was a bit of laughter around the circle, but mostly the wonder of the moment. Men and elves drifted into distant memories of their own, and all thought with love of the small boy in the chieftain's sanctuary.

"But shall we have the song, Lord Arathorn?" returned Elladan softly.

"If my lord allows," said the young ranger who had served the brew. "I, too, know the wolf-pup song and can sing it for you. My voice is passing fair, people say."

"A good mind, my young Haldran," said the chieftain, relieved. "And truly a fair voice you have… even with my faulty ear I can vow it is true. So sing for us, if you please."

As the fire died down, young Haldran was called upon again and again to sing the wolf-pup song, complete with clapping and stomping and acting of parts, until night set in and each sought his rest in his own way. Sentries were set, horses bedded down, weapons cleansed and made ready. The morrow would bring hunting, perhaps battle: their life's work, and not a one in all the company ever considered any other.

xxx

Far away, in the hidden valley of Imladris, Master Elrond paced slowly along the path leading to the bridge. Few lights remained in the windows, numerous and variform, but a restlessness had driven him to the walks and gardens; close to the music of the rushing water, touched here and there by crickets chirping, the faraway night singing seemed to belong elsewhere. This place, this spot…here perhaps he could go inside the stirrings in his light-threads, his sense of life and death forces moving both near and far. A sort of darkness seemed to loom over the valley itself, but its center was not close by.

His light-mind reached out to his sons, but perceived no strife there; Elrond closed his eyes and let his mind's eye wander over the borders of his secret land. Of late he had shared with others of the Wise, and all had sensed the stirring of a faraway power, an evil one they knew well. The Enemy, whom they named hardly ever, was sending more and more of his servants abroad, trying the defenses of the elven reigns and laying ambushes on the long and lonely roads between them. He sighed and pulled back, remembering suddenly the torment of his beloved wife Celebrian, captured by orcs while traveling to the Golden Wood. The twins had won her back seemingly unharmed, but her joy in the Great Lands was forever crushed and she was so driven by lingering horrors, that only the deep peace of the Undying Lands could heal her. Wife, mother, lady of Imladris…all had fallen away. He seldom allowed himself to recall her sudden tears, the deep sighs shaking her body, the growing pallor; her life force had been violated and she could not mend the rift. She would have gone out like the last spark of a dying coal, and rather than see her decline they had all agreed that she should journey over sea. Even Arwen pressed her to go, assuring her that they would all be together again, perhaps shortly. The age was drawing to a close, for better or for worse, and the greater number of Eldar had the journey on their minds. Not all, reflected Elrond with a smile. His sons, the twins, seemed determined to exterminate the last orc from the face of the land before setting sail into the Uttermost West.

He wondered, at times, about the Undying Lands. He himself had never sailed even to Numenor, in the days when the Dúnedain first returned; or later, when they joined in the war against Sauron. The long, faraway days of his youth had been spent by the sea…he let his stream of memories carry him back to the Havens at the mouths of Sirion, and the isle of Balar. He had in fact been born there, when Eärendil his father and Elwing his mother had met in that refuge after the fall of Gondolin and the ruin of Doriath, and joined their lives forever.

His mind's sight rested for a moment on his beloved brother's face, Elros who had cast his lot with the Edain and sailed away to Numenor as its first king. Why, at times he wondered, did the Eldar seem to choose so readily this putting of sea miles between them, choosing to spend long immortal lives apart…? He shook his head to clear this train of thought away. He knew he would be with Celebrian again. Her pain would have been healed, and she again the wondrous beauty with the silver voice. He wondered if she lived now in the city of Valmar, perhaps in the gardens of Lorien, where she would sleep dreamlessly until mind and body were knit back together and joy born again in her heart. All the songs and tales of Valinor he had treasured upon hearing even from the very first, some had been laid to rest in forgetfulness, others floated still in the depths of his memory and came up from time to time. The great promise, relief from the labors of Middle-Earth and from the pain of loss, which was the way of things mortal.

For this the Valar called our kindred to cross the sea to Valinor, he reflected. Our unaging flesh belongs to the infancy of the world, when all was new and still taking shape. The passing of millennia after the call has settled the ways of the world so, as a flowering of beings that live and die unavoidably. Those of the Firstborn, and of the early days of the Earth, can hardly understand them…excepting perhaps the trees of Kementari that grow huge and ancient.

He reached the bridge and sat for a while, watching the bouncing foam of the river as his mind sought, still, here and there. The Dúnedain, he thought, our final tie to this land of grief. Just as his brother had forsaken elven-kind to lead them into their bright destiny, so now did he delay his own journey to the West. He could not leave them, yet, to face the Enemy alone. The spirit of the Last Alliance lived still, despite the dwindling number of the Eldar, despite the grave disobedience of Isildur…which he paid for, dearly, and all his line.

"To this day!" he said suddenly, aloud. He rose in agitation, striving to find where the words had burst from. He turned and climbed swiftly back to the house, muttering under his breath a prayer, a plea for light, and vision. No one did he see, until his secretary in the antechamber to his quarters.

"I was awaiting you, Master," said the younger elf.

"Bring me water in the silver pitcher, quickly, and the silver basin. Quickly." Elrond took a candlestick and crossed his threshold, whispering still his plea for a blessing. "Varda, Exalted One, send thy light." He settled on a stool before a low table at the opening to his balcony, and smoothed the surface with his hand. He had left the candle by the door, and the only light came from the Lady's stars above.

There was a small knock at the door, and his scribe came in with the silver vessels. "The water, Master," he said, bringing them to Elrond's side.

"Leave them, and go to your rest. I will be reading, perhaps for the night's hours. Go, my friend." The scribe closed the door silently behind him, musing on the choice of his lord's words. Master Elrond would be reading, in fact, but not the scrolls, recent nor ancient: his reading would be into the shapes and shadows revealed in the basin of water, and the great effort required could only mean that urgent matters were afoot. He sighed and settled into his couch and covers. He would know soon enough, as would they all. And whatever came, there was no better haven of wisdom than this, the son of Eärendil.


	5. Flight From the Sanctuary

Chapter Five: _Flight from the Sanctuary_

Gilraen awoke with a smothering gasp, her eyes wide in panic. The night only just ended had brought her no rest, and now even the light, restless sleep she had finally fallen into as dawn approached was ripped from her by a seeming cry of pain. But she heard nothing, even as she felt it, and saw to her distress that the shriek was in fact a whisper, and that it came from within her own body. The silent, sobbing feeling that so terrified her was located in her very womb, and in the midst of her dread a fleeting thought still passed. "It is so…there is a child… But, what…?" She panted in fear, not pain, and pressed her palms to her lower belly. "My child, what ails you?" she finally cried aloud, rocking back and forth.

A sudden sharp rapping at the door shot through her frenzy and jerked her outside herself. "My lady," a woman's voice in the crack of the door, "my lady, a rider from the company has arrived in great haste. Come. He is asking urgently for you." The knocking resumed, insistently.

Gilraen drew the cover around her shoulders and scurried to open the door. The serving-woman entered and clutched her mistress' hands. "Quickly, my lady, let me help you dress." Both women's fingers were stiff and clumsy, and the final lacing was tied as they were rushing from the room.

"Aragorn!" Gilraen said, stopping suddenly and turning to the little bed.

"He sleeps still, my lady," said the woman. "Leave him for now, and I will return at once to watch him. Now we must make haste."

"Where is the rider?" asked Gilraen as they hurried to the stairway. "And who is he?"

"I do not know for certain, my lady."

Gilraen stopped. "How is that? Is he not a Ranger? How can you know him not?"

The woman lowered her voice. "Not a Ranger, lady, not a mortal man. One of the elven-kind, that ride with our lads and men. Though I have seen him here on a time, I know not his name. But you must see him. He awaits you in the dining hall."

"The boy…"

"I will go to him at once, my lady. Have no fear."

Gilraen stopped outside the hall doorway. Her heart was pounding as if she had raced up a mountain, and she breathed deeply once, twice, three times, until she was steady enough to enter and face the messenger, if indeed a messenger it was.

"Master Glorfindel!" she exclaimed. "What…?" her words petered out at the gravity in his red-rimmed eyes. She looked about, seeing but not seeing, far from the familiar great room, the tables and benches, now all clean and cleared away.

"Lady Gilraen, daughter of Dirhael, queen of the Dúnedain…" his voice failed and he turned away.

"What is it, Master?" she came close to him and sought his eyes. Her heart was again beating wildly, and flashes of crazy movement and color hid the elf-lord's face from her on instants, while at others he seemed bathed in a harsh white light.

"He is gone, my child. You must come with me now, and the boy." He caught her to him as her legs gave way, and lowered her to sit on the floor. "Gilraen, Gilraen, stay with us," he took her face, shaking it softly, trying to read into her eyes.

"What are you saying…?" she uttered with difficulty. "How is he gone…? He…? My Lord Arathorn…?" her voice rose shrilly and he quickly placed a hand over her mouth.

"No wailing, my lady. Hold yourself in strength. There is much to do, and both you and Aragorn must do your part. There will be time for grieving later… years…" He clasped her in his arms and lifted her, fearful of her rigid body. "Gilraen…"

She could hear him only faintly, through the roaring in her ears, and her mind could settle on nothing that made any sense. But the old friend holding her was, she knew, trustworthy; and she let herself be led out of the hall and to the courtyard. "A warm cloak for my lady," she heard Glorfindel ordering, "and bundle up the boy snugly. We have a long ride ahead, and little time." Further instructions were lost to her, as far-off unrelated mumblings; she never felt the waves of horror and anguish coursing through the halls and stairways of the sanctuary, never heard the muffled sobbing or the words of grieving. Up on the elf-lord's horse before him, she barely noticed a second rider, one of her own Dúnedain, galloping close by with a small bundle bound to his body. It was growing light as they raced across the moors, but she saw nothing.

xxx

Miles devoured by the great hearts and legs of their horses, they arrived finally at a small woody cove in the hills. A ranger hailed them from the bush with a bird's cry, then stepped forward to salute his lady. She muttered an answer, dazed even now, and Glorfindel bent down to consult with him quickly and in secret. The ranger pointed in a direction to an angle, and as they passed, whistled coded signals to other watchmen about.

The woods thickened right ahead, and the riders were lost from sight in a moment, moving over the untracked forest floor. Scant minutes later they emerged into a tiny clearing, sheltered between the concave rocky rise of a mountain cliff and the close growth of pine and brush oak. The sky was barely to be seen above, and the morning light had not yet broken through.

Men were there, Gilraen saw vaguely, and elves. She seemed to know them all, but could hardly raise a hand in greeting. They were still and gazing at her, anxious some, others ashamed, many with great pity, and sorrow in them all. The twin sons of Elrond, whom she could never tell apart, came forward and reached up for her.

"My lady Gilraen," said one twin as he lowered her to the ground, "I am Elladan."

"Then you are Elrohir," said Gilraen smiling weakly at the other twin who was taking her arm and searching her eyes uneasily.

"Elladan, take Little Aragorn," said Glorfindel. "He is surely awake by now, and must be seen to at once, before he tries to jump down."

"He doubtless thinks he is on a hunting trip, and that this is a game… poor mite…" said the twin as he reached the Dúnadan rider who was unraveling the last of the wrappings that had bound the small boy to him. "Come, little cousin." He took the child in his arms and did not put him down. He was still quiet, half-numbed by the long hard ride.

Gilraen leaned upon the arm supporting her and moved away from Glorfindel's heaving horse. The elf-lord slipped to the ground and followed quietly. "Where is he?" she murmured. Elrohir pointed to the shadows at the foot of the cliff.

"There is a small recess among the rocks. It cannot be seen until one is almost before it. We ourselves found it only now, this day…" he trailed off, sadly.

"Show me," she said. "Take me to him." As they moved forward, Elrohir heard her mutter under her breath, "No wailing… no wailing… Aragorn…" They stooped to enter the small cave-like opening, and there she saw her lord asleep on a bed of stones and boughs. "Asleep," she said, turning to her companion, "he is surely asleep."

"In a sense, my lady," answered the elf sadly, "but he will awaken elsewhere, upon another time." He held her close around the shoulders and led her to the low mound they had built for the chieftain of the Dúnedain. The tall man seemed indeed asleep, and only a dark scarf across his forehead and right eye belied the impression. That, and the stillness. Ever his great chest rose and fell in sleep, Gilraen knew well. She reached out slowly and held her hand above him, delaying the touch of her lord's unmoving body. The final moment, before beginning her life without him.

She would shake him, call him, sing to him, cover his face with little kisses, and he would not open his eyes in answer. Little Aragorn would come bounding in, trumpet call before him, to leap up astride the broad breast, and no great laugh would awake in response. This she knew, by rote. This was dead, this was life ended. Not the mortal nightfall of her race after long years upon the earth, but a sudden breaking of a strong living branch, leafy-full and flowering, unlooked-for, unthought-of, even now unthinkable, as she lowered her hand to the heart of her beloved.

"Yes," she said. "I know this shoulder, I know this strong neck…" Her hand traced over his belly, seeking, barely daring to press harder. She was sure he would awaken of a sudden and grab her searching hand… She shuddered, and broke in a wrenching sob, falling across the wide chest of that which had once been alive as Arathorn II, son of Arador.


	6. I Will Never Forget

Chapter Six: _I Will Never Forget_

Elrohir and Glorfindel stepped away, turning their backs on the sobbing lady. "Let her be, for a moment," said the elf-lord. "She must release some tears now, if she is to go through with the tasks ahead."

"She is not too loud, barely those terrible sobs," whispered Elrohir. "But we must be close by, forbearing a turn for the worse."

"In truth, there is no time now for further mourning," said Glorfindel. He signaled to Elladan to come. "My lady," he turned again to her, "you must take your son now, and help him make his proper farewell to his sire."

"How so?" she asked, tears on her fair face. "Must he see? What will happen to him, to his little heart?" she sobbed anew, distraught.

"How can we know?" wondered Elrohir. "In all his life this child has never received a blow struck to the heart. He has never known sadness…but now it falls to his lot."

"Would you have him calling on the Lord Arathorn day and night until his heart were worn down by a father's denial?" Glorfindel spoke straight into the midst of her grief. "It is far worse, I believe, to be haunted by an emptiness than by an early encounter with loss brought about by calamity."

"I understand, Master," said Gilraen brokenly. "He must say goodbye. And so must I, is it not so?"

"Stand firm, my lady," said Elrohir. "We are here with you."

Elladan came forward with the boy in his arms, now fully awake. "Put him down, my friend," said Gilraen with a faint show of strength. She held her arms out to the boy. "Come to me, my son. Come, Aragorn," she said.

The boy slipped into her embrace, though alert to the strange feelings about him. He understood few of the words spoken, and he had never seen his mother's sweet face so ravaged. And there was something more, large, fearsome… Gilraen looked into his eyes and said softly, "My son, your father is here."

"Dada?" said the boy, brightening. "Where is Dada?"

"He is here, but he is hurt. Hurt very, very hurt. He is still, and speaks not," her voice cracked a bit, but she went on. "You may see him, and touch him and call to him, but he will not answer." The boy looked at her strangely. "Will you see him?" she asked finally. The child nodded. "Come, then. Give me your hand."

She rose and turned, and suddenly before Aragorn's eyes was his father outstretched on a risen platform. "Dada!" he said, reaching forward. Gilraen restrained him only barely, and let him approach the body. "Dada, wake up!" he shook his father, then turned to his mother. "Dada is sleeping," he said, lowering his voice.

"Your father will sleep here for many, many days. He will not awaken." Her face crumpled, and new tears streamed from her eyes.

"Why?" whispered the little boy.

"He is very, very hurt, my son," she said with great effort.

"Hurt where?" asked the boy, searching the hands, the neck, the face. "Here?" he asked suddenly, pulling at the scarf.

Elladan jumped forward and stopped the child's hand. "Yes, Aragorn. Your father is hurt there. But do not move the scarf," he knelt and turned the child to face him, still holding the little hand. "You must not look at the hurt. It is very bad and you will be sick. And all of us, as well."

"Momo?" he turned to Gilraen. "You are so sad. Are you sick?"

"I am sad, my love. And I am sick." Her legs seemed to give way beneath her, and she sat on the cave floor next to the mound. She leaned her cheek against her dead husband's thigh. "I would stay here, truly…"

"I will wait, too," said Aragorn, sitting down next to her. "We will wait for Dada to wake up." She turned to him, sudden guilt in her mien.

"Get up, Gilraen," said Glorfindel abruptly. "This must go another way. There is no time for hovering between two minds. More is at stake here than you can dream of."

She rose, holding the little boy's hand, and nodded. "Command me, Master. I do not know what to do, so I will be ruled by you…" she trailed off, miserably.

"We must go, my dear," said the elf-lord. "Make your farewell." He moved away, a gesture of his hand to call the twins to follow. They spoke in low tones by the mouth of the cave.

Gilraen stood before Arathorn's body. "I will firstly bless you, my lord, for your fine life, as a husband to me, as a father to Aragorn, as a chieftain to our people; as a son to your dear father, so lately lost, himself; as a brother and companion to all who ever shared your path. I know you are here now, my lord, though in a divided fashion: the strong body I so adored, in which you walked and spoke and loved and gave battle, is made still and will return soon to the matter of which Arda is made. I only can stand it because I know that soon enough, I, too, will cross into this state and my bones will go to the earth as yours are to go, now. Within this cranium, violated by an enemy's blow, there have been great thoughts and visions which are now stilled… Within this wide breast there has beaten a brave heart, and quickened a passionate lover, and counseled the ruler of a sad and lonely people, and now no more… From these gonads has sprung this bright child, and the tiny promise of a girl that seems to die with you, and many more would have sprouted like shoots in the springtime… and we would have had our large table full of laughter, sons and daughters, in this favored time… So is the course of your flesh cut short, my lord, and with it the workings of your greatness: you are now in the realm of memory. But I know, too, that there is more to you than this great strong frame, my love, and that this spirit body cannot be seen by my eye nor heard by my ear… barely can I feel it in my heart, and weakly… I do know that you know me still, and that your love is with me always; that you suffer not, and would spare us the tears and pain. You now understand the mystery, and you rest at ease knowing that we all will arrive in our time. I must live with this faith for the time given to me, and trust in the Gift of Iluvatar to his Second-born. Yes, Arathorn, I will bring your son to manhood, and then pray for passage to your side. I will go, now, and never see your face and hands again, and in all my grief I cannot refrain from raising my voice to give thanks for each of the days and minutes, perhaps very few, that we walked hand-in-hand in this life. Goodbye, my love. Rest you in peace."

She bent low and kissed her husband one long, last time, then turned to go. She met with a level gaze from little Aragorn. "My son, kiss your father with a big, big kiss, and say goodbye. We must go, and he will stay here. We must." She nearly flinched from the hard look in his gray eyes, heretofore sparkling and merry.

The boy turned again towards the body. "Dada," he said, placing a small hand on the large one. "Cold," he said, "hands cold." He looked to his mother in question, then back to his unmoving father. "Dada is not sleeping. Dada is not here. What is this, Momo?" he looked coldly at her again.

"This is death, my son. You had never seen it." Gilraen looked as though her heart were totally wrung through at last.

"Aragorn!" called Elladan. "Come, little cousin. You must see to Rogarin."

The boy turned to them, and said in a strange little voice, "Rogarin?"

"Yes, indeed. You must take care of him, now. He will be your horse, and then he will not miss his master and be sad." The elf held out his hand to the child. "Will you be the friend and rider of your father's horse?"

"I will," said Aragorn, and went outside with Elladan. Glorfindel and the other twin flanked Gilraen as she stepped out into the morning light, streaming at last down through the thick boughs of pine. She turned back for a final look, but the interior of the cave was hidden from view. Several men were standing by, near a large pile of rocks they had brought to block up the entrance to the tomb. As she moved away, they began placing the stones.

Three men, two rangers and an elf, called to Glorfindel from the side of the clearing. He left Gilraen with a word, and hurried to them. They were holding an object in a cloth, at the sight of which Glorfindel stiffened and turned his face for a moment. "This arrow must be destroyed in fire, but not here," he said. "Wrap it and we will carry it from this clearing, to be burned far away. Nothing must reveal the place where he sleeps. Many years will pass before any may come here again."

"After the entrance is solidly blocked, we will cause a landspill from above," said one of the rangers. "Earth will cover the rocks, and soon green growth will sprout to guard our chieftain's rest forever. He will never be molested, my lord Glorfindel" he said, as they returned to the company around Gilraen. He bowed his knee to her. "My lady."

"My thanks to you, dear Haldabar, for this and for all the services ever you rendered to my lord," she said, taking his hand and raising him. "I must go now, but I will see you again, soon…" Gilraen looked to Glorfindel in question.

"Yes, my dear," he said, "part of the company will remain to finish this work, and the rest will ride with us to Rivendell at once." He led her to the shadowy woods where the horses were tethered, and they saw that Aragorn was already there, speaking seriously and quietly to Rogarin. The great horse carried his head low, and seemed to be listening attentively to the boy.

"Momo," he turned to her, "we will ride on Rogarin, you and I."

Glorfindel started to speak, but the twins signaled him nay. "If it is not with the boy, the beast will not leave this place," Elladan whispered. "Already he has agreed to be handled by those small hands, and only now has he found some peace."

"Are you strong enough, my lady?" asked Glorfindel seriously. "We must ride hard, so if you feel faint it would be best you ride with me, or with one of the twins."

"And who would ride Rogarin with Aragorn?" she asked. "No, Master, I believe this is the best mount I could have. Arathorn was one with him, and he will carry me safely. Both of us," she amended.

"Then drink of this, my lady," said Elrohir, holding out a leather pouch. "It will warm and sustain you for the ride." She took the pouch and sipped carefully, then lifted it to swallow more. "That is enough, I believe," the elf said hastily as she gulped twice more. "Too much will make your blood run hot, and we can't have that…" he trailed off, a bit embarrassed, and took back the pouch.

"Thank you, cousin," she said gravely, though with a shadow of a smile. "Of a sudden I was so hungry and thirsty, but now I feel quite strong already." She turned to the great horse, and put her face against his neck. "Rogarin," she whispered, "it is you and I and the boy now. We must leave our lord here in the mountain, and you must carry us forth." The animal nickered low and shuddered, but turned to nuzzle her hand. She stroked him again, then turned to the stirrup. With a swift movement, she was up before any could assist her. "Come, Aragorn," she said, bending down and holding out her arms. "Up with me." Elrohir jumped forward and lifted the child to the horse's back. He was settled before his mother in a moment, and the elf checked all straps and buckles, the bit and bridle. He whispered a word in the animal's ear.

"If you feel him begin to slump, we will stop and you may bind him to you," he said to Gilraen. "But I believe he is well enough now, for a while." He patted the boy's leg. "Are you not, little cousin?"

"I am," said Aragorn simply. It was hard to know how much he understood of all that was happening, but he sat steadily and tugged reassuringly at Rogarin's mane.

All were mounted quickly, and the company moved out with barely a sound. The hooves were muffled by the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor, and an owl hooted in the branches above. "Goodbye," breathed Gilraen in a thought. "I will never forget, never…"


	7. This is Home

Chapter Seven: _This is Home_

The sun was setting at the riders' backs when they rounded the final hilltop and the valley of Imladris opened at their feet. They had galloped over wide moors, clambered up mountain paths, forded fens and streams, almost always following trackless secret ways. More than once they had taken refuge in small glens while outriders scouted ahead or doubled back on their trail quietly to make sure the company was not being followed. During these brief halts Gilraen and Aragorn had slipped from the saddle and walked about, stretching their legs unused to so many hours of riding.

Now, at the sight of the candles lighting in Elrond's windows, a terrible weariness came upon Gilraen. She had held up in silence, half-numb, half-alert, during the long hours of the ride, and had bound Aragorn to her for safety soon after the sun began to journey down from its summit. Even now, the child stirred and struggled against his fastenings, as he looked down for the first time on the great houses and terraces in the valley, built along the river bed and into the mounds and crevices of the hillsides.

"Momo," he asked, "what is that?"

"It is the house of Master Elrond, our kinsman," she answered.

"Beautiful, Momo," said the little boy, "it is so beautiful."

Indeed it was. As the company descended, Aragorn was all eyes, looking raptly from left to right, and above their heads. The stonework was ancient and colored into the rocks of the mountain, but of such exquisite lattice and carving as to seem to take flight into any strong wind. Trees were everywhere, some bare-branched, others still clinging to their red and golden leaves, others safe in their ever-greenness, here and there one still strangely in flower. The growing shadows hid more and more from the child's sight, but as they reached the bridge the entire valley and hillside seemed to mirror the starry skies of Varda on a windy winter's night.

"For you, little cousin," said Elrohir. "Imladris greets you with many candles to light your way."

"Why?" asked Aragorn.

"Because you are here beloved and awaited, and this will be home for you and for your lady mother," answered the elf. "Come, we must dismount and cross the narrow bridge on our own feet."

"Take my hand, lady," said Elladan. "Aragorn will cross behind us, leading Rogarin."

She did as he bade her, but seeking out her little son with her eyes. So small, yet, and thrust into duties far beyond his strength… or were they? She came across the bridge and turned anxiously to see him. He was so small that for him the bridge was wide enough, and he walked without fear leading his great horse. The animal, head low and close behind the boy, stepped carefully and nickered as if in speech.

Once across, the riders took the path to the stables to bed down their mounts, and later to their own quarters. Elladan went with Aragorn, leading Rogarin to his stable quietly, and would later bring him to Elrond. Glorfindel and Elrohir took Gilraen between them, each lending an arm, and led her up to the gallery above the wide terrace. She seemed to be walking asleep, and asked no questions nor looked to one side or the other. They crossed the covered passage, its lattices wound with fragrant vines, and came to the main entrance of the house. Elrond himself stood at the door, and held his arms out to her as she came near.

"Little cousin," he said as he wrapped her in a close embrace, "this is your home. You will be safe here, and the boy, and you will be comforted in time."

"I thank you so, dearest uncle," she said, "but my words can hardly express any sense at all. I know I am safe, but my mind is numb and hardly know where I am, or indeed who I am, now…" Tears began to flow from beneath her tightly closed eyes.

"You are in Rivendell, my dear, with your long elven-kin," he said, turning her face to him. "Open your eyes, Gilraen. Gilraen, Lady of the Dúnedain, wife and mother of chieftains, though this must be kept secret for a time. This is your home now, and the home of your son. Here he will grow to manhood, and learn what he needs to fulfill his high office in times of strife… But this can wait until the morrow," he added as new tears welled in her eyes. "You must rest now, or bathe first if you wish, and surely eat something before giving yourself to a long, soothing sleep."

She let herself be led into the high-ceilinged hall, and three elf ladies came towards them. At the sight of one, she dropped Elrond's hand and leaped into the arms of Lynael. "Oh, my foster-mother, my darling teacher… oh, my friend…" she looked at her suddenly. "He is gone, mother… he is—"

"Do not say it," she said, putting a finger on Gilraen's lips. "Say nothing, my dear lovely lady. Come with me and think of nothing. Later, we will see. There will be time enough to sort everything out."

"And there is another thing," she whispered as the three guided her out, "I must tell you… I am afraid…" They went, the three soothing the one, and the others watched in relief until the women turned into a corridor and out of view.

They followed Elrond into the Hall of Fire, where a low table near the hearth was set with plates and covered platters, a tall flagon and goblets. There were deep chairs around, and one small one with several cushions. "Build up the fire, my son," said Elrond, "and then take your chair. Yourself as well, my friend," he said to Glorfindel with a gesture as he settled into his favorite seat.

"Elladan is at the stables with little Aragorn, bedding down the Lord Arathorn's horse. It is the child's now," said Elrohir as he fed small logs into the rising flames.

"It all fell together as a blessing," said Glorfindel. "The boy struck by the coldness of death…we know not how it would have gone, had Elladan not called him out to care for the animal."

"Who was himself bereft," put in the twin straightening up from the hearth, "and would not heed even my hand. His pain was terrible. Fearful and furious at the least movement in his direction." Elrohir sat in the chair nearest the hearth, and gazed into the fire. "When Aragorn came out to him and spoke his name, Elladan swears the animal broke down as if in tears and became gentle as a summer breeze."

"Elbereth watches over us, even in sorrowful crossings," said Elrond. "Before the boy comes to us, tell me briefly what happened. Some things I already know."

"We had the day, Elrond," said Glorfindel. "The orc pack we came upon were fewer in number than ours, and rather on their way back to the high passes with their loot. They did give battle, but we bested them and brought down almost all. A few were quick to escape, and one of these turned somehow to loose a final arrow."

"We paid no mind, at a shaft wildly flung. The orc itself did not stay to see the shot strike target." Elrohir sagged forward, his sorrow suddenly unleashed.

"Arathorn had removed his helm, I know not why," said Glorfindel.

"The day was won," cried Elrohir. "The enemy defeated, the few scampering away…"

"Such happenings are hardly ever written in the mediums of augur," said Elrond sadly, "at least not clearly. I read in the water a cry of warning late, unheeded."

"My cry to him even as the shaft came down upon his head," sighed Glorfindel. "He may have heard me, but he surely heard the whisper of the arrow above him, for he raised his face at that instant. The shot went through his right eye. He died at once."

The three bowed their heads for a moment, each letting his grief flow quietly. They had known the dead chieftain from boyhood, and he had learned much with them, hunting and riding in the endless crusade against orcs and all servants of the Enemy. As always when dealing with the mortal Dúnedain, they had known that they would see him part as they had seen each of his forefathers before him. But not so soon, not when he had held the chieftainship barely three, four years…

"And his late father, Arador, himself taken much before his due," said Elrond, giving voice to the thoughts they shared. "This is beyond all the perils in the years of their history, even the darkest of times. Never before have the Dúnedain of the North been so near to the loss of their kingship and the line of Elendil. Not even when Arnor was sundered, not even when Arthedain was defeated, and Arvedui drowned."

"It happened in Gondor," said Glorfindel.

"Yes," said Elrond, "but we can prevent it happening here. We can harbor and protect the little one until he is ready to take on the burden."

"He is so small," Glorfindel shook his head. "He will total three years this coming spring. It is true he is a bright child, and has behaved wondrously on this trying day, but a score of years must pass before he comes to manhood."

"Much hangs in the balance," reflected Elrond. "I have pondered over the hours, but would have your thoughts as well… Tomorrow we must counsel with the Dúnedain, and with those of the Wise that are here, and I believe we should offer a plan... that can be amended, if need be."

"When I fetched Gilraen and Aragorn from the sanctuary, I instructed the house master and the head woman to close down the household and prepare for dispersal," said Glorfindel. "They were greatly shocked, but I believe they must have been already moving their first lines this day, as we rode here. The forerunners will be scouting the land, some, and others going to their many lairs to pick the best ones for wintering." He sighed again, sadly. "Barely two nights past were we settled around our shrouded fire, and much of the talk was hopeful, if not joyful. They were well into their plan for expansion, to come forth, and now they must melt back into the land, more invisible than ever."

"Your counsel was wise. We must never belittle the power of the Enemy. Perhaps no word of this disaster has passed beyond our borders, but we must not risk the merest chance." Elrond paused, looking deep into the fire. "And your thoughts, my son?" he said finally to Elrohir.

"I believe the Rangers are well-able to disappear into their hidden places in the wild," he answered, "and endure these years to come. Their elders are wise in the ways of survival, and some of them will still find their way to us, come better days, to take part in the safekeeping of our lands and theirs from the cursed goblin and orc hordes." He leaned again towards the fire and added a handful of sticks one by one. "I wonder, however, if they will be content with little Aragorn making his home here with us."

"They will understand the need for safeguarding the Heir of Isildur, whose very existence haunts the meditations of the Dark Lord," said Elrond. "We do not know what he knows, but we cannot be over-careful. The Dúnedain are aware of this, as well, and will have one less hazard to afflict them if the hope of their people is secure in this place of peace and learning."

"This is very true, and most important," put in Glorfindel. "Arathorn and Gilraen were educating Aragorn with the highest intent. We ourselves were already having a hand in it, as you know, Elrond… Equal hours spent in the study of lore and skills of the mind and hand, closeted with the best of teachers, and then in the fields and woods, in the practice of the notions of his learning."

"And now this fine plan has come apart," said Elrohir, "both because the kindred will be dispersed, and because his principal teacher was the chieftain himself. If we are to prevent him from slipping back, muted with shock and sorrow, we must plunge him into a design for learning that will be his daylong living." The twin's face brightened. "What happened with Rogarin is surely a good sign."

"There are lines of learning that we can preserve, most certainly the ones he had with Gilraen and with you twins. You and I, Glorfindel, must devise ways of enchantment for his young mind, a quest for knowledge that will spark his spirit and make him reach for the stars themselves." Elrond's eyes seemed to smile. "There has not been a child in this house since a thousand years…"

"Has it been so long?" asked Glorfindel. "And now this little Dúnadan, on whom such great hopes and dire need are founded."

"Which brings to my mind an earlier thought," said Elrond, serious again. "I firmly believe that his presence in this house must not be shouted from the rooftops. Even his name must be dropped from our speech. He too will forget, and call himself by the one we will find for him, for these years. When he comes of age, we will reveal all to him, and he will take back Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"And here he comes now, Father," said Elrohir. "I hear Elladan whistling a tune, both to lift their hearts and to tell of their approach."


	8. Three Wise Ladies

Chapter Eight: _Three Wise Ladies_

Gilraen walked blindly at Lynael's side, leaning her head on the beloved shoulder, until they came to a door half-opened. They entered a wide, high chamber with double doors leading to a balcony. One of the elf ladies, Milia, hurried across to close them, while the other stirred up the fire and checked the contents of a large kettle. As she lifted the lid, a sweet fragrance spread through the room.

Lynael led Gilraen to a long oval tub half-filled with a warm milky liquid. "Is the floral brew ready, Larat?" she asked. "Pour it in, and more boiling water if you feel it needs so…" She removed Gilraen's cloak and tossed it aside. "Let me take this dress off, my dear," she spoke soothingly to the stricken woman as she unlaced the ribbons. "Some deep part of you longs for this bath, I know…" she smiled in loving concern.

"Yes," said Gilraen. "I would it could all be washed off. All of it, and none of this ever happened." Tears began to flow again.

"Now, now," said Lynael, "no sad speeches until we are ready. Here, my lady, you step into this delicious bath—" she checked the water with her hand, "and let your body sink into restfulness." Gilraen let herself be led, and sighed a long sigh as she lowered herself into the steaming, fragrant liquid. Lynael and Larat cushioned her neck with thick towels tucked around the rim of the tub, while Milia took a small harp and settled herself on a stool near the foot.

"I would play for you, and sing perhaps, my lady," she said. "Will you bear with me?"

"If you wish," murmured Gilraen, "a lay of things long past…" She moaned softly as Lynael kneaded her left hand and forearm, and Larat the right, then the feet, left and right, and the calves of her legs. The sweet staves and rippling harp notes seemed to flow through the pores of her skin into her strained and knotted muscles, until little by little she, too, seemed to float into the fields and seashores of the song. "I had forgotten the elven minstrels' magic," she breathed, "that swirls one away into the stream of their story…"

Milia paused in her singing and plucked an intricate melody on her instrument, letting the notes lead one after the other into unknown shadows, then suddenly broke into the elves' song to Elbereth that everybody knows. She turned the phrases, however, with a tone and color of her own, at once soothing and haunted. "You are wonderful," whispered Gilraen from the depths of her detached, floating state.

When the vapors were thinning out and the bath beginning to cool, Lynael leaned forward and broke the spell. "Come, lady," she said quietly. They took Gilraen's hands and raised her, holding her steady. She stepped out of the tub onto a soft mat and the three women dried her body quickly with thick, warm towels. Lynael took note of the enlarged and darkened nipples, and shook her head imperceptibly as she deftly wiped a drop of blood that had run down the leg. The elf-women clothed her in a matching tunic and robe, light but warm enough, spun from the finest silk.

"This is lovely," murmured Gilraen sleepily as they packed her into a bed of amazing softness and clinging warmth.

"One moment more, Gilraen," said Lynael. "Drink this, and then you may sleep, free from dreams, through the night." She brought a vessel to the half-sleeping lady, and held her while she swallowed it all, dram by dram. "Very good," she whispered, "now, into the deepest sleep ever, my little girl…" She stroked the forehead, waited, then reached for a smaller towel and folded it into an oblong pad. "Help me, my sisters," she said quietly.

The three barely moved the sleeping woman as they secured the pad between her legs and tucked the covers around her. "This is not good," said Larat sadly. "There is a child that will never be."

"Yes, that is what she wanted to tell us," said Lynael, "but it was hardly needful. One look at a woman, even fully dressed, and I can see well enough that she carries a tiny life. But this promise to Gilraen has been broken, along with the one of everlasting love…" She sighed. "My lord Arathorn would have dangled from the smallest finger of this little girl. Now both are gone forever, to where mortal kind go by the will of Eru, and we must help this lass find life and laughter without them."

"But there is the boy," said Milia. "She will build a new life around him."

"Surely she would want to," said Larat, "but there are more hands involved in guiding this little prince to manhood. I know Master Elrond's thoughts on this matter." She busied herself with the damp towels, making a bundle together with Gilraen's cast-off garments. "These we should burn, that she never see them again and remember."

"Burn!" cried out Gilraen suddenly in her sleep. The three turned to her anxiously, and Lynael searched her sleeping face. She breathed heavily, muttered bits of words, and then whispered clearly, "They are burning it… they think I don't see, but I do… I see the arrow… black arrow…" The elf-women clutched each others' hands and moved their lips in silent prayer. "…pierced the life of my love, curse you… twisted our road… sent us into darkness…" She began to pant in agitation, and Lynael stretched out next to her, holding her body close, while Larat flew to her basket of herbs and picked out a fresh shoot, then another. She rubbed them together between her palms as she came back to Gilraen and held them to her nose and mouth.

"You, sing," she said to Milia. "The holy name of Elbereth, and call for the pity of Nienna to ward off evil thoughts and wishes…" The songstress crawled onto the foot of the bed and began to hum softly, as her fingers plucked watery sounds from the harp-strings. Lynael still held the anguished sleeper closely, blowing long and softly on her face, neck and hands, and Larat went back to the herb basket. "This will do, I believe, Lynael," she said, setting a small pot on a burner with live coals. "The water will boil in a moment, and I will steep a mixture."

Whether it was the song, or the herbs, or the warm current flowing from Lynael's body to hers, or all three together, Gilraen was slowly released into a deep, dreamless sleep. "Now she will rest," said Lynael softly as they rose from the bedside with a last caress to the sleeping girl's cheek. "Come, let us sit by the fire and speak in whispers. We cannot help but suppose that some troubled part of her mind can hear us."

"The herb mist will soothe her. I will place it here, close by." Larat arranged the burner and pot to her satisfaction, and joined her companions by the fire. "Her spirit is split by fright and sorrow," she said. "That is why she saw the—" she broke off and mouthed silently _arrow burning_, "and she heard me speak a word that set off her agitation. We must help her regain her oneness," she finished.

"Of that we were speaking when she burst out," said Milia. "Of what she will have in her life to love and cherish… to be the center of her caring and dreaming…"

"The wiser and more gifted of mortal kind are not daunted by the Gift of Iluvatar to his Second-born," said Lynael. "Even so, when the moment comes they are often unprepared… Death they seem to accept, but more easily when it comes at the end of a long life, or as relief from a grievous malady. This death that strikes off a flower in its full bloom is always disastrous to them… although in this I believe we can feel as they do: our kind can be stricken suddenly as well, and a beloved face and presence be ripped savagely away from one moment to the next."

"So as we live we compile generations of lost loves," reflected Milia, "we who cherish our mortal kin, the Dúnedain…"

"Indeed," said Lynael, "many of us keep a face, a touch, in our hearts from even a full age past. And you know," she smiled, "sometimes the face returns and lives again for a little while, with another name, another step…"

"Another tone to his music…" laughed Milia softly. "Oh, yes, they do return, these mortal men with their unending waves of offspring, like the sea itself, taking and returning in an endless circle." She leaned towards the fire and placed a slender log carefully. "But her case is not so. She will love only once in her brief lifetime, which will surely now be even shorter. There will not be another man in her bed, in her arms… for there is one in her heart forever, in secret and in sorrow."

"In sorrow, yes… but why say you in secret?" asked Larat.

"You said before that Master Elrond has a design for the child's rearing," said Milia. "Vital to this plan is a veil of secrecy over the name, origin and destiny of his foster-son. Even among us, it will not be spoken until the season is done."

"And what part must Gilraen carry out?" asked Lynael worriedly. "She has been a good mother and fine teacher to the boy these two years. She must find the strength to carry on her part, which will be different perhaps from what has been."

"First, and foremost," reflected Larat, "we must nurse her back to health. I believe she will sink into a lethargy rooted in her heart but branching into her body. And the loss of the child, and the blood, will weaken her further…"

"A new home, a new life. No duties, beyond recovering her health and spirits." Lynael nodded slowly. "When she wakes from this deep sleep, it will be a kind of rebirth, as in another world. Although of course she does know Rivendell from previous visits…

"Music, Milia, must be present in her every waking hour. In time she must herself be taking up an instrument… you may help her find the right one…and then perhaps she will give words to her feelings, words in song and verse that will help her heal."

"I seem to recall that both she and her mother are gifted in music," said Milia. "It may help us now. I believe I will bring her a small, sweet flute, and perhaps she may be persuaded to explore its birdlike twitterings. Singing will take much longer…"

Larat rose and went to Gilraen. A butterfly-soft touch was enough to sense her body's balance of cool and warm, and her steady, deep breathing. The wise-woman returned to the fire. "The counterpart, water," she said. "Running water. She must bathe in pools, dangle her feet in streams, stand in the spray of waterfalls, pour out buckets and pitchers, even run about in the rain… Water flowing will wash away her pain, bit by bit."

"Perhaps a little while in the rain, then into her hot tub," laughed Lynael. "We must be so careful with her this autumn and winter. She will be without appetite, now when her body will be needing life-essence to heal itself. It will be a struggle, but we will have to bring her from soups to nuts and meats. Best would be if she herself took interest in concocting healthful dishes."

"I have it!" Milia straightened up brightly. "She will do it for the child, if not for her own health or pleasure."

"That is crafty and clever, dear sister," laughed Larat. "I believe she may be brought to this task shortly, and warned that she must not weep over her boy's food: it may not spoil directly, but it will carry seeds of sadness into his body. She will refrain."

"And even the little bits she takes to her mouth to test flavor and done-ness will bring about her own deadened appetite," mused Lynael. "Some nourishment her body will absorb, and for the rest we can trust the good soup. Strengthened with all the herbs in your basket, in the garden, and the forest, Larat."

"That we can bring her to, as well," ventured Larat. "To study the form of each leaf and stem, to come to know the secrets they hold for us. Walking in the valley with me, learning to pick a plant for medicine… another healing art in itself."

"These are all good thoughts, and my mind is more at ease," Lynael sighed. "I would that we rest here with her now, taking turns to watch. Later we must check the pad," she said sadly. "We can only hope that it all happens while she sleeps, and that it will not be more than another bad dream, not a memory."

The elf-ladies fell silent. One gazed into the fire, another at Varda's stars through a window lattice, another at the fine features of the sleeping lady's face. Each read something, and put it into her heart for safekeeping and further thought, until the night was spent.


	9. My Chair I Like It

Chapter Nine: _My Chair… I Like It_

Little Aragorn came along the gallery with Elladan, his small hand in the tall elf's, taking leaps for every step and pursing his lips to whistle answers back to his cousin's trilling bits of melody. As they were leading their mounts to the stables the twin had begun a teasing game with the child, whistling catchy fragments and breaking them off, in an implied invitation for a response to round out the phrase. The little boy's quick musical ear had awakened at once and he laughed, forcing the air through his lips first in imitation of the elf's tune and then with echoing variations that grew in volume as he soon caught on to the artful workings of tongue and lips.

Night had fallen when they reached the stables, and each horse was taken to a small enclosure of its own. Dry straw covered the floor, and fresh fodder lay in the mangers with buckets of clean water on the side; the warm smell of home for some, haven for others. Rogarin sniffed at the feed and accepted water from the bucket at Aragorn's urging, swallowing long and deep while the boy stroked the strong-muscled neck. Elladan stepped out for a moment and returned with a tidbit. He gave it to Aragorn and said, "He must eat this. It will help him rest."

The child brought the medicinal tidbit to the horse's lips and said, "Eat, my pony-horse. It is good." The animal took the soft morsels and nickered. He raised his head high and looked about, trembling at intervals and shifting nervously. After the long, hard ride and the pressing feeling about him all the while, there was finally a sense of peace. Rogarin smelled many horses, some he knew from birth, others that had been with him in the grueling gallop to Rivendell, and others that were new and strange to him. Mares, he sensed, and other stallions, but there was not a challenge or even a warning whinny.

"These are peaceful horses, my good friend," said Elladan to the inquiring animal, patting his neck and stroking his ears. "Come the morrow, you will meet them more closely in the wide pastures."

"Tomorrow?" asked Aragorn. "Tomorrow we ride again?"

"Are you still wanting to ride, little eagle?" laughed Elladan. "No, tomorrow Rogarin and all the horses will rest. They have worked very hard today, and now we must take care of them. Come. We, too, must rest." He guided the boy out of the enclosure and fastened the slatted half-door.

"I am not tired," said the boy.

Elladan laughed again, harder. "What a boy!" he said, shaking his head. "You have not a notion of how tired you are. But we all must rest, so that tomorrow we can do all the things we have to do."

"What things?" He placed his small hand in Elladan's, and hopped along on one foot beside the elf's long paces.

"Many things. Tomorrow we will come and see our horses again, you must come to Rogarin and examine him carefully, his legs, his mouth… see if he has bruises or cuts or scrapes, and heal them. Rub him, brush his coat, comb his mane and tail… There are many things we must do for our horses. I will show you, and help you with some things because you are still so very small."

"Thank you, cousin," said the little boy seriously.

Elladan sensed a sadness rising to engulf the child, and quickly swung him up to a stonework banister looking out over the river, spilling and foaming over shiny rocks. "And we will go fishing tomorrow, as well," he said. "Down there, that way, the river falls into a deep pool. There are fish, big, fat ones, good to eat. Will you help me catch some for our dinner?"

"Yes!" cried Aragorn. "I like fish!" He frowned. "But fish don't come to me. Only to Dada." Elladan felt a stab of alarm, and forced down his own agitation. He swung the boy away from the banister and took up the whistling game again. He trilled a phrase much like the morning larks' song, and the child laughed and fluted out an unsteady answer, not entirely out of tune.

The whistling game, not a match so much as a dialogue, served them as conversation as they climbed to the gallery and crossed high over the wide garden terrace. They were in sight of the door to the great entrance hall when Elladan suddenly raised his whistle to signal his brother of their arrival.

"Wait!" shrieked the child excitedly. "I cannot whistle that! Wait! Show me…" He dug in his heels and poised himself as if to leap from a great height. The elf nearly choked laughing, and could not shape his mouth to whistle. "Come!" the boy insisted with passion, "show me!"

Elladan finally managed to reprise the bit of melody, once, and then again slowly, with emphasis on each whistled note. On a third time around, the child echoed each note studiedly. They finished, and as a happy look came over little Aragorn's face, an answer suddenly trilled forth from the doorway.

"What!" exclaimed the boy. "There is more bird-song?" He turned and saw Elrohir pursing his lips to whistle again, then quickly lisp-whistled the bit of tune he had just acquired… in time for the twin's answering part. He jumped gleefully from one foot to the other, whistling another bit much like a marching-round. The twins joined in laughter and each took one of the child's hands, swinging him high back and forth.

"He never tires," said Elladan. "He will suddenly drop, I deem, when the last bit of fire sparks out." His mien abruptly came serious. "Is Ada within?"

"Yes, and Glorfindel. We were waiting for you both to come, so we may break bread," said Elrohir. "Are you hungry, little cousin?"

"I am!" he shouted, "hungry, hungry, hungry! I want to eat very much…" he amended shyly, as half-remembered manners finally emerged. "Thank you."

"Come, then, quickly. There is water here for washing your hands and face," smiled Elrohir, leading him to a large bowl of scented water by the doorway. His brother winked at him over the boy's head, and they kept straight faces hardily as the little one frowned and muttered inaudibly.

All washed up, the three went into the Hall of Fire. Aragorn stopped and took in the scene, the intimate circle at the fireside within the imposing height and breadth of the hall. It seemed to go on forever, into the full darkness, and he moved close to Elladan.

"Welcome, little kinsman," said Elrond gently. "Come. There is a seat for you close by the fire. Come and warm yourself." He did not rise from his deep chair, not wanting to overwhelm the child with yet another tall stranger looming above. But he leaned forward and smiled, and tended a hand towards him. "See? Here is your chair." He patted the small, sturdy armchair and plumped up the cushions.

"A little chair. Your chairs are big," said the child attentively as he approached the circle and examined the seat intended for him. He poked the padding and shook the headrest, then suddenly leaped over the arm with a whoop, landing in the seat and settling among the cushions happily, while the twins took their seats as well. "My chair!" he laughed. "I like it!"

"And food, little one," said Glorfindel merrily. "We heard you were hungry."

"Oh, yes, I am," said the boy, opening his eyes wide. "Very, very hungry!"

"Then let us see what we have here," said the elf leaning over the laden table. The firelight glinted on his golden hair, and the metal covers glittered as he removed them from the platters. Aragorn blinked and sniffed as pleasant mixed aromas reached his nostrils. "Meat, first?" he took a plate and served a portion he reckoned would suit the boy for starters.

Elrond took the plate and passed it to the child, while Glorfindel piled plates for them all. Little Aragorn took his and put it on his lap, gazing at the fine piece of roast with savory sauce. His fingers twitched anxiously, but he looked up at his tall kinsmen and said seriously, "We wait for all of us to start together, Momo says."

"She is quite right," smiled Elrond. "We share our food with our loved ones, our good friends, and we wait to eat together." He closed his eyes for a moment, and holding his hands over his plate he let flow a chanted phrase of thanks. The boy looked at him curiously, drawn by the warm feeling he emanated. The elf-lord opened his eyes and smiled at the child again. "Well, shall we begin?"

"Yes," whispered Aragorn. They all dug in, and for a while only the sounds of a good meal being dispatched seemed to fill the hall. Bread and fruit came and went, cheese and cream, honey, and a refreshing brew to make it all settle peacefully.

As the final satisfied sigh came from the small boy, his head seemed to nod and his little frame crumpled forward. Elrond took him up and held him close for a while, rocking and humming softly, then rose and carried the small sleeping burden to his own chamber. The special meal was over: their first of many to come, but no further word of this was spoken that night.


	10. Breakfast Fit to Burst

Chapter Ten: _Breakfast Fit to Burst_

The day dawned clear and fresh. Aragorn opened his eyes but lay still, his roving sight passing over every feature of the room in which he had awakened. He took in ceiling, wall moldings, window frame; the golden light among waving treetops seemed to call him out to revel. Even so, he continued his review of his surroundings until his gaze fell upon the smiling face of Elrond, sitting close by the small bedstead.

"Good morning, little one," he said kindly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Ye-e-es," murmured the boy, unsurely. "Momo?"

"She is with the lady Lynael," said Elrond, stressing the name. "Do you remember the lady Lynael, the healer?" The child stared and said nothing. "Will you come with me to break our fast and then walk around the house and the gardens?"

"Yes," said the boy again, more steadfastly now. "And Momo?" he asked, watching Elrond's face.

"We will see her later. I think she is still resting, very tired from riding so hard all day yesterday. Remember? You came here with her on Rogarin, with Glorfindel and the twins and some of the Dúnedain rangers." He answered slowly, studying the boy's response to each name and image.

"Rogarin!" exclaimed the little one. "I must take care of Rogarin, Elladan says." He threw off the covers and jumped up. "I am ready. I am hungry."

Elrond laughed. "That is very good." He took the small hand in his. "We will go to the kitchen and see what there is on the fire. What do you like to eat?"

"Bread, milk, meat. Apples. Honey!" his eyes sparkled. "Hurry, Ada!" He pulled at Elrond's hand, and did not perceive his start at the name slipping so easily from the child's lips.

"Of course," he thought, "he heard the twins calling me Ada, but he does not mistake this for the name he has given always to the chieftain, his sire… Dada… And he is destined to address me so, henceforth… This is still strange, still so new…"

As they went along the halls and galleries, the boy chattering happily and asking one question after another, the elf-lord pointed and explained with growing delight. They entered the kitchen flushed and laughing, and all who were sitting or serving paused in wonder at the sight. Some there were that could not remember ever having seen the Lord Elrond laugh aloud, and now did not know if they should lower their eyes or move away or go on as if nothing were amiss. And the small boy, a mortal, hanging from their master's hand and hopping back and forth on one foot… Elrond laughed again at the expressions on their faces. "We have a hungry boy here," he said. "We must feed him, or he will eat us instead."

An elf-woman reached out for his hand and led the boy to the laden table. She lifted him and placed him atop a stool, and pointed out different appetizing dishes. "There is a hot, thick gruel, sweet and tasty, good for a cool morning. And these cakes here, with butter and cream…"

"Yes, please," said the child happily.

"I will leave him here with you, Vaneta," said Elrond. "I must meet now with the company. One of my sons will come for him soon, after he has filled his belly-pack." He tickled the boy's midriff, making him squeal with laughter. "Eat, my boy."

"Rest assured, my lord, that he will roll out of here like a fat little barrel," laughed the cheerful cook. "So, sit, my boy, and begin with the gruel." She ladled out a bowlful of the thick, fragrant cereal and set it before him. "Put in a little of this berry sweet," she said, reaching the small ceramic pot and placing it before the child. He laughed, his mouth full, at the funny face molded on the pot, and the big ears that served as handles. "Do you know Brother Jim Jam, little master?" The child shook his head. "Well, Brother Jim Jam watches out for the food on our table, so that each good flavor stays in its pot and on its plate and doesn't go straying around and out the window, following its airy brother _smell_… whose duty it is, in fact, to float away and reach out for hungry boys to bring them in to their meal…"

The laughing elf-woman chattered on as the boy ate, taking plates away and putting new ones before him. After the final bit of egg had been wiped up with a scrap of dark bread, she took his hand and led him to a small balcony with a cup of brew. "This is where our fine herbs grow, in these beds and boxes. So we can always have them very fresh and fragrant, to put in our cook-pots. Can you smell this one?" She brought his face to a bushy little sprout with tiny dark green leaves and red specks of flowers.

He breathed in, deeply, and opened his eyes wide. "Haaa!" he breathed out and then purred in pleasure. "Good, lovely. I like it."

"I'm sure you do, and you must come and smell them all, one every day, until you get to know each and every one. This little dearie is called _carmilae_."

"Car-mi-la-e," the child repeated happily, "car-mi-la-e is good-smelling."

"They all are," she smiled, "but each one different. And each has its purpose, which you will also learn by-and-by. Now sit here in the sunshine and drink your tea." She handed him the two-handled mug. "I will look after my lovelies…" she trailed off into an elvish song while she pondered over each small plant, picking off tiny bugs and dead leaves, and fluffing them softly as she whispered their names. The boy sat enthralled, watching her and sipping the warm drink.

"Vaneta…" A shadow seemed to fall on him suddenly.

"Yes, dear?" She straightened up and turned to him. "What is it?"

"Where is Momo?"

"Ah, by Momo you must mean the Lady Gilraen, your sweet mother. She is with her friends the healers, the ladies Lynael, Larat, and Milia. They came early for a tray of goodies to tempt her to eat, upon awakening. We sent her the finest bits we had… not as much as you ate, little master!" The kind eyes searched his, and she took his hand. "She is well, my pet. She is only resting because she is still very tired. You will see her quite soon, do not fear." She pulled him up and twirled him around. "And you must never, never be sad on such a lovely sun-shiny day! You must be warm and happy as each little bird and flower, blessed by our great sister Arien the Sun…"

They twirled one final time, laughing, and came to a stop. They raised their faces and the sun poured over them like warm honey. "Close your eyes," she whispered. Hand in hand they stood for a timeless moment, and so they were when Elladan came out from the kitchen. He caught himself and smiled, for they made a tender picture.

"Good day, little cousin," he said finally. "Have you eaten your fill?"

Little Aragorn leaped into the tall elf's arms. "Yes, Elladan! Very good food, and Vaneta smelled me car-mi-la-e," he spelled out. "She will show me all the plants, by-and-by. Is that so, Vaneta?" he turned to her for confirmation.

"Of course, my dear. You must come every day and smell a new one." She patted his cheek lovingly. "You are a precious boy."

"But now we must go to work," said Elladan with twinkling seriousness. "Remember? We must go see Rogarin, and tend to him."

"Oh, yes," said the boy intensely. "We must search him for cuts and bumps, and we must wash him and brush his coat, and comb his mane and his tail."

"Such a lot of work for a little boy!" laughed Vaneta as they went back in through the kitchen, now empty and quiet.

"I am learning. Elladan is teaching me," the child's simple words seemed to hang in the air, long after they were gone.

"A precious boy…" Vaneta swept a cloth over the table top, and took up her elvish song again as she returned to her herb garden, and the warm autumn sun.


	11. Wise Choices, Hard Choices

Chapter Eleven: _Wise Choices, Hard Choices_

When Elrond left the little boy to break his fast, his mien turned serious and his footsteps pondered their way to Glorfindel's quarters. They were empty and quiet. "Outside, surely," he said to himself, and turned that way. The sunny morning promised a cheerful setting for the grave, sad matters that needed to be attended, and as Elrond came to the corner of the terrace they favored for gatherings of certain numbers, he saw that Glorfindel, of the same mind, had preceded him. Deep in thought, he sat on the balustrade gazing at the clusters of red berries among the rowan branches gently waving above.

"They are coming soon," he said to Elrond, "and our brothers of the Council."

"Elrohir will join us as well. He will speak also for Elladan, who is taking the child to the stables and perhaps fishing. They have given much thought to this question, and their counsel is worthy because of their closeness to him."

"Yonder, the Dúnedain," Glorfindel pointed to the stairway leading to the gallery. "I see Haldabar, and Pethion, and his brother Saldan... and Dirhael, father to the lady Gilraen. The others I know by sight, but not their names…"

The group of men, eight in all, climbed swiftly to the terrace and came towards the elf-lords, while from the wide doorway of the main house came Elrohir and four tall, serious elves. They came together under the tree and bowed silently. Elrond spoke.

"Be you all welcome, my friends, and my thanks for your quick response. Have you rested, and have you broken your fast?"

"We have, my lord, and our thanks to you for sustaining us in this terrible passing," said Haldabar. His eyes, and those of all the Dúnedain, showed a night of weeping rather than a good sleep, but they held their emotion in check now.

Elrond waved them to their seats, and took his own. The Dúnedain and the High Elves exchanged silent greetings and settled about the terrace bay. All attended the words of the Lord of Imladris. "Ever have we been united," Elrond began, "our two kindreds, and we Eldar hold dear the blood we share with thee. In our count, it is not far gone that Luthien and Idril were thy foremothers, and Beren and Tuor our forefathers. Ages may pass, but still we feel this loss as one of our own, untimely fallen to chance, and the Enemy." After a moment, Haldabar spoke.

"Thank you, my lord, for your kind words," he said. "Not all of the Dúnedain can claim this high kinship, but those of us who can, even from afar, value it as the supreme inheritance and grace of the Valar. And even the others, not of Luthien's own, hold your society in the greatest regard. And your counsel, lord, on this day of our bright light's extinction." He paused, and sighed. "We are at a loss, Master Elrond. It is not in our history to pass the chieftainship to another, not the Heir of Isildur, and among all the sorrows we have had to survive, it has never befallen that we lose one and are left without a successor. Even now we cannot deviate, though Aragorn is but a small child. And there are none who would say as much."

A murmur of affirmation ran through the company, then Haldabar spoke again. "We are not of one mind, however, on the matter of the best course of action for the child's care and education in these coming years. Lord Arathorn was personally in charge of rearing the Heir of Isildur, both in design and imparting of knowledge. And we his people were all living together in the sanctuary, gathered in anticipation of emerging finally from our ages of silence…the signs seemed to prophesize it…

"But we were mistaken in reading them and now must scatter, leaderless, and await the years for Aragorn's rising. What his lot shall be, now, is the great question that brings us to your counsel, Lord Elrond." The Dúnedain warriors looked to the elf-lord, nodding slightly in assent.

"What says the Lady Gilraen?" inquired Erestor. "We knew she would not be present at this meeting, but surely her word is known to you, Elrond."

"There is none as yet, my Lord Erestor," said Elrohir at a sign from his father. "Just now I have been to see her, but she says little more than this night past…"

"It is our wish, my own, my sons' and kin's, that the Lady and the child make their home in Imladris," Elrond said directly. "A part of Aragorn's fostering would have happened here in any case, even if this terrible event had not occurred. And Gilraen requires healing at the hands of her teacher and the other wise-women. Even then, she will never be as she was. Her only remaining task as Lady of the Dúnedain will be to care for the boy, though she will not be burdened. He will be attended by our entire household, as one of our own." He smiled, briefly. "Though we have not had a child of our own in this house for many a long year…"

The Dúnedain remained silent, seeking each other's eyes, and finally Haldabar said: "We find your counsel wise, as always, Master Elrond, and not unexpected. There are many among us who would take mother and child into our homes, but there is not a place of true safety for them. These are harsh times, and so will be especially this winter, soon coming. I speak for my brothers: we are of one mind with you on this matter, and thankful that Aragorn and his lady mother may enjoy this haven."

The words floated and settled, and though they were correct and meaningful there could not but be a wrenching of many hearts. The Dúnedain Rangers did not show their feelings, more so knowing that the right course had been taken. What they carried away in their hearts, however, would be mulled over around many campfires in years to come. They would miss their lord, even more than they had his own sire, the Lord Arador, for now they would miss them both. And the Lady Gilraen. And the child! His bright joyfulness had lighted the lives of all, and now no more. His childish laughter would ring in these halls and then fade, as he grew, and when he returned to them he would be a man. A score of years, perhaps, during which they would be even more silent and elusive, and so raise the crop of children that would still, in time, be the cohort that would ride with their chieftain to glory…by the grace of the Valar.

Now Elrond spoke once more, his words intruding on the men's reflections. "There is further to be said, regarding the child." All turned to him. He sighed and continued, "The events yesterday were such that he was overwhelmed, and though displaced he was kept from fear by the closeness of his mother and his new-found charge, the care of Arathorn's great horse."

"That is so, my lord," said one of the Dúnedain. "With all our grief, not one of us but was tickled by Little Aragorn leading Rogarin to stable, following Elladan and the other riders, and we watched them settling the great beast down. The boy seemed happy, and we were grateful…"

"But the rent in his life left by the loss of his father, the chieftain, will swallow him up if we allow it to settle. Though it may seem cruel, or disloyal, I believe it is necessary for the boy to forget all that has passed…even what short life he has known, even the most worthy of fathers, as was his." Elrond paused. The Rangers looked at him in shock and disbelief, but still none spoke. "In time, when he comes of age, all will be revealed to him: name, rank, lineage. His illustrious sire. But from this day on, he will be called by a different name, and we will labor tirelessly to divert him from the memory of his life before."

"He would be raised for the chieftainship. From the coming of summer he was schooled by our lord, and the wise among us. How will the teaching continue, if he knows not who he is?" Haldabar seemed agitated.

"He will come to his station by the long way around, my friends," said Elrond gently. "His learning will be rooted in earth, air and water. The history of Arda as revealed to the Eldar by the Powers themselves, and the stories of the ages…there are some among us that were born in the Blessed Realm; others in Beleriand, as myself at the fading of its day. He shall learn everything, bit by bit, over the years… Númenor, Eregion, Arnor and Gondor…he shall know his friends and his enemies… And when all the pieces but one are in place, that last shall be delivered, and his true name will finally be known to him, and that of his father. This I promise."

The songbirds alone relieved the enduring silence, as elves and men meditated on these words. That they came from the deepest wisdom, this the men knew, for their race had ever been guided by the Eldar in times of strife and doubt. Their alliance of thousands of years was rooted deeply in the heart of each Dúnadan, and in this time of sorrow they chose to trust once again. More was said that day, until the Sun was past her summit and the Dúnedain took their leave and rode the sad path back to the wilds of Eriador.

xxx

Pethion reined his mount in next to Haldabar, when the path widened enough for two riders at their ease. The entire company of the Dúnedain had joined back together at the crossing of the paths, the detail that had ridden to Rivendell with Gilraen and those that had remained to finish their lord's burial and the hiding of his tomb. Sad and tired, they now approached the sanctuary in almost the same force as had ridden out, full of song, barely five days past. Haldabar, now captain of the Rangers, led the men in melancholy silence.

"Have you spoken to our brethren of what was said in the council?" Pethion kept his voice low, for Haldabar's ears alone. He had, himself, been going over Lord Elrond's words, once and again, always coming to the same conclusion… uncertainty.

"I have not, for it must be told to all… to them, to the women, to the elders, especially, and in some simple way, even to the children. All will wonder where the Lady and Little Aragorn are." Haldabar shifted in his saddle, anxious and disturbed. "I would tell the story once only, and then no more. We will call a council at once."

"The people are most assuredly waiting for us at this moment. They need to be told, and we all need comforting." Pethion smiled sadly. "Even we, who know, need to speak out… only once, I know, and then put it away… forever."

"This will be harsh. It does not sit well with me to gather the people and give them such news." Haldabar appealed to his friend. "Let us stay together, my brother, if you please. I will speak as I can, but perhaps you may find better words when mine dwindle away. As they will, I know…"

"We are one, the Dúnedain. We may fall to the Enemy's evil strokes, but we will never cause breakage among ourselves." Smiling, Pethion took his companion's shoulder. "There will not be one voice among the people who will chastise you."

"Not even for leaving the child and the lady?" Haldabar's anguish finally poured out through his tears.

"Even then," answered Pethion quietly. "This burden is not yours alone. We all agreed to Master Elrond's reasons, and we had no better thoughts to offer."

The two friends rode on in silence, followed by the troop of warriors. Soon they were crowning the high ridge over the valley of their chieftain's sanctuary, and Haldabar signaled a halt. He turned his mount to face his companions, and motioned them to approach. "We shall wait a bit, rest our horses and settle our hearts. Dusk is nigh, and I would take the path downwards only after darkness covers our movements. I cannot say, even now, that we are unwatched by servants of the Enemy." Men and mounts shifted uneasily.

"Dismount," said Pethion, and followed suit. Some walked their horses, others loosened saddle cinches and slipped bits from sore mouths. Haldabar set three men to keep watch, and encouraged the rest to stretch their long bones out on the high mountain grass. There was a random low buzz of talk, and finally silence as they watched the night creep up the side of the valley.

When shadows sat thickly on all, aided by scraps of mist from the forest, the men remounted and set off down the path, single file, without a word. Their shapes were quickly swallowed into grayness, and had any eyes been following, they would not have pierced the well-guarded secret of the entrance to the valley.


	12. There Will Be Healing

Chapter Twelve: _There Will Be Healing_

Golden rays of late-morning sun played with shadow leaves across Gilraen's sleeping face, as she lay upon a divan on the balcony from her room. Milia plucked slow, liquid notes from her harp, humming softly, seemingly far away. Lynael and Larat watched from the doorway.

"There is tea brewing," said the lady of the herb-lore. "She will wake again soon, and this time she must eat. If not her appetite, this infusion will do it."

"This time we must prepare better," Lynael mused. "We must not give her any slight chance to turn away or relapse again into sleep. She has rested enough, her young, strong body. It is her shattered mind that draws her away from the light of morning."

"But she did come to the balcony of her own accord," said Larat, "and this surely is a good thing. She feels Life calling to her, and answers even without the will to." She turned inside to the teapot and poured out a mug half-full. "Let this cool a bit, and then we will raise her only enough to let her swallow."

A bit of song came from Milia's humming, and the sisters listened in rapture. The High-Elven staves were from Lorien in Valinor, composed perhaps by Estë herself. She sang of deep healing and life reborn ever, circling, altering the balance and then seeking to restore it. "Lovely..." said Lynael. The instant spread and permeated the air about them.

"This breath of ecstasy... Let us stir her now, so she wakes just a little," whispered Larat. The two stepped to either side of the divan and crouched down to Gilraen's sleeping form. "Not the shadow of a tiny smile on her lips, Lynael," she spoke again. "I fear joy is gone from her completely, even in dreams."

"Gilraen, my child," said Lynael softly, "my lady, drink this warm tea, if you please." They raised her shoulders and supported her head, the eyes half-opening under fluttering lids, a small groan escaping her. She would have turned her head, but firm cushions kept her face towards the mug. Before she could muster a protest, Larat tipped the vessel carefully and dribbled the flowery-smelling liquid into her opening lips. "Have a care," whispered Lynael. "She must not choke or cough."

Milia changed her song suddenly, taking up a small flute and twittering out a gay little tune reminescent of spring cavorting. Even the birds in a nearby tree shook their feathers and tweeted back, so catching was the air of the sweet cane instrument. It pierced Gilraen's lethargy and brought her a tiny shudder of attention, with which the skillful healers managed to make her drain the mug to the bottom.

"There," said Larat with satisfaction. "In less time than we can pour out our own tea, she will be asking for a bite to eat. What is there on the tray that hasn't cooled or hardened?"

"Vaneta's sweet cakes, wrapped cunningly to keep warm and fresh," said Lynael, inspecting the tempting bits on the tray. "Good, strong honey, and a tart berry jam... there are bits of several cheeses, though it may not be a wise choice as yet." She took a slice herself, however. "Still, it is so tasty," she continued. "Later it will be good for her to start on cheeses, and then meats again. For now, even nuts we must retain. This gruel is quite cold, and the egg-roll... which is also not good just yet."

"A pleasing aroma... I am hungry..." Gilraen rose to a sitting position and opened her eyes wide. "I will eat, now, my dear ladies..." she reached out her hands to the elf-women, who jumped to clasp and settle her in comfort. Larat arranged cushions for her back and legs, while Lynael opened a sweet cake and poured honey over the two halves. She placed the small dish on Gilraen's lap and took a morsel to her lips. The sick woman hesitated only a moment, then took the bite greedily. One, another, and another with her own hand, while Lynael fixed another cake, this time with the same jam that Little Aragorn had swallowed spoonfuls of, on his cakes, in his gruel, and even licked from his fingers.

At the end his mother, too, licked her fingers delicately and leaned back in content, a small sigh escaping her. "I was hungry, indeed," she said. "I believe I had not eaten since—" she broke off and seemed to shrivel in anguish. Her face began to pucker and tears flooded her eyes. Larat would have moved to her side, but Lynael held her back with a gesture. Milia, too, was still, and the three elf-women gazed solemnly at the grieving girl. Tears came, plentiful and burning, terrible sobs wrenching her body as she rocked to and fro. Half-words spat harshly from her lips, bouts of wailing, curses, even, until finally her storm dwindled down. She heaved a great sigh, and a smaller one. "What is left, now? What am I to do?" She looked straight at Lynael. "Where is Aragorn, my son? Where is the only child I will bring forth in this life?" Her eyes were bitter. "And what have you done with the other one?"

"That is enough, my daughter," said Lynael seriously. "You are not yourself, and you speak words that later will shame you." The three approached her and took seats at her side and at her feet. "The tiny promise of a girl, name her. There is a small box with the remains, and we will deliver her back to Arda when you say. But, for your own peace, give her the name she would have borne in joy and laughter. Close the circle, and grieve for your daughter and your husband together. For a time, then let the stream carry them to the far circles. Trust in us, Gilraen, as you always have."

There was silence on the balcony, the sun slanted towards the rich hours, and finally the Dúnedain Lady spoke. "I name her Sibilanë, and I give her back to Arda on this day and forever, with thanks for the brief joy she brought me." The elf-women edged softly towards her and embraced her.

"You are beloved, you are the heart of our song," Milia breathed into her ear. The three kissed her and tugged at her hands. "Come," said the songstress, "walk with us in the garden for this hour of gold and warmth."

The tight little group moved silently into the room, then through the door to the hall beyond. The women seemed to glide, and Gilraen did not feel her feet stepping along the floor, nor her weight making footprints even in the most subtle dust. They emerged finally into the garden through a little-used entrance close to this side of the great house, and then the elven healers slowed their pace and stepped back from her.

Gilraen stood and looked about her, up into the trees and farther on to the mountain-side. "This is so lovely," she said. "One would say there is nothing else."

"This is your life now, Gilraen," said Lynael, "another life. Here you will know day and night, and every season and mood of Arda. And they will all come in beauty."

"This is another life," the girl repeated. "May I, then, strike these things of torment from my mind and imagine my love in a faraway land, awaiting me, or trying to find his way back to me?" Her body shook in agitation, her eyes flooding with tears.

"You may do so, my daughter," said Larat seriously, "only if this can be done in joy. No more tears." She smiled and took Gilraen's hands. "Dwell on the great works he is achieving, building a home for you with his hands, stone by stone. Not sadness, but a secret joy... your own, for all the days of your time in Arda."

"Yes," she whispered, her gaze travelling, "I can do this. I can keep the secret."

"You must save your night-times for dreaming, my lady, and not hide in yourself and your thoughts during waking hours." Lynael looked deep into Gilraen's eyes. "You have work to do, of the greatest importance."

"I have work. I have a son to raise, even here."

"That is so, that is the great work. It brings joy to our hearts that you see this so clearly." Milia's eyes sparkled. "We will all help you. We will all teach him. I will bring him to music and poesy, and yourself, my lady... we both, together, with him."

"Yes..." whispered the girl.

"Here in Imladris no enemies can reach you, my child," said Lynael. "But there are enemies within that may harm you and harm us every one, if you allow them." The young woman looked at her uncertainly. "Your enemies, that may drain away your very life and deprive little Aragorn of his mother, as well, are sadness that seeps into the bones; weakness of the blood, from poor eating; senseless, mean, lying visions and whispers that poison the mind and weaken even the resolve of a mother..."

"We will ward them off, your enemies," Larat murmured intensely. "We will be with you every step of the way, in joy and in sorrow, rising and reclining... until you tire of our meddling..." she finished in a joking gesture.

"Never," said Gilraen. "My life will be short enough, to never tire of thy sweet love and company. I will go with thee where I must. Fear not."

They rose and followed the path to a pool of swirling waters fed by an offshoot of the river, shallow and studded with bits of shining crystal that gleamed through the clear water back at the afternoon Sun. "Here we will begin," Larat bent to the water and took some in her cupped hand. "For you!" she laughed, and sprinkled Gilraen lightly to her great surprise. They all laughed, then, even the sad lady, and thus her healing began.


	13. At the Stables

Chapter Thirteen: _At the Stables_

Elladan and Aragorn sang a silly song as they made their way to the stables. Each of the phrases was broken off with a different whoop, scattering what little sense they had made and sending the two into fits of laughter. The morning was so fine, the tintillating days of Rivendell autumns. They stopped midway across the bridge to watch the curling foam and throw sticks into the rushing water. Aragorn would fling his bit of wood far upstream with all his strength, then race to the opposite side of the bridge in time to see his play-craft swept away to faraway places. "My chip-ship! My chip-ship!" he called, "Farewell! Safe journey!"

It seemed to Elladan that this game could go on for hours. The humor was simple and free, the moment itself a bridge… between lives, he thought. It was very good that the boy was sharing this game with the water, always a sure medium for tracing into the threads of protecting powers. Though of mortal kind and far-removed, he was a son of Melian; and if his spirit chose to seek her, or call her near, the water was a good place to start. Melian would probably not, but surely some child of Ulmo would venture into subtle speech with this bright boy. Already he was intent and open to the sparkling flow arising from the tumbled surface of the stream; Elladan perceived this, and a wish filled his heart for the vigor to settle into the boy's marrow and keep for the hard days to come. Hard days, hard moments. They could happen soon.

Elladan shook his head, and suddenly Aragorn was laughing at him and pulling at his hand. "Cousin, cousin, your head in the clouds! Come!" he leaned away to move the tall elf into his wake. "Rogarin is waiting, and— what is the name of your fine big horse, Elladan my cousin my friend?"

"Tchaiyen. His name is Tchaiyen," the elf answered. "Do you know that word?"

"No-o-o," said the child, wagging his head seriously. "What is it?"

"An old word from far away," Elladan lowered his voice to a whisper. "So they call the smoky crystal cast from the fiery hearts of mountains that tremble… far, far away."

"Mountains that tremble?" Aragorn opened his eyes wide. "I do not know…" He shook his head again and turned his face to the tall peaks above them. "Mountains are very strong, cousin." He pondered in silence as they made for the flagstone path to the stables. "Tchaiyen… crystal from a fire-mountain… That is wonderful, cousin!" Aragorn chirped suddenly. "A wonderful name for a fine big horse. I like it."

Elladan laughed, and swung the boy around him with a stream of crazy bird calls that set all the true feathered creatures chattering angrily. The two, merrily chastised, subdued their noisemaking and pretended to flee from a flock of huge, fierce birds. The game dwindled away, and Elladan said in a dreamy voice, "We will go one day to the faraway land of the trembling mountains, Aragorn. You and I and Elrohir."

"Oh, yes!" the boy's eyes glowed. "Of course Elrohir will come. To the faraway land."

"We must ride on a boat, over the big waters," said Elladan. "Would you like that?"

"A boat?" the child puzzled.

"A chip-ship like your chip-ships, but very, very big," the elf laughed as an incredulous look came over his little kinsman's face. "Very big chip-ship. Big as a house."

"Big as a house?" crowed Little Aragorn. "A chip-ship?"

"Yes indeed," said Elladan.

The child marched on in silence, digesting this amazing image. There are many great and good things, he decided, and took up the whistling game from the evening past. "The big waters," he stopped suddenly. "What big waters? What is that?" His eyes became solemn, their grayness smoky as Tchaiyen.

"Yes, the big waters…" Elladan mused. "We must speak of the big waters one day."

"Not this day?"

"Not this day, for we have much to do with our horse-friends, and then we must go fishing, and for that we must think not of big waters but of these small, quick waters. Do you understand this, little cousin?" the elf searched the boy's face again.

"Ye-e-es," he said. "Head and hands together, says Dada always. Eyes and work together, step awake and step alert," he slipped into an easy singsong. His tall cousin felt his insides quail, shocked to suddenly remember that he had forgotten. So drawn into the task of sustaining the boy, he had separated the painful cause of it all. Now the stream of hurting pictures seemed to overwhelm him.

The child's voice trickled in as he swung his cousin's arm back and forth. "…awake and alert, not step in a hole…" he laughed as he mimicked a stray-minded passerby. With an effort, the elf pulled himself into the moment and reached for the light mood they had brought from the bridge. They walked on.

"Here now, the stables," Elladan whistled three sharp notes. An answering whinny came from within, and a general rustle of curious animals. As the pair entered, a new whinny came from Tchaiyen, bright and happy, and an anxious trumpeting from the far stall in which they had bedded Rogarin the night before. Other horses stamped and nickered, busy-bodies all as they watched the big one and the little one coming down the passage. Elladan stopped a moment to stroke his gray and whisper in his ear, then followed Little Aragorn to the far end of the building.

The child was already fondling the big head thrust over the stall door. "Good, good morning, Rogarin," he said happily, "How are you? Did you sleep well?" He pulled from his pocket a morsel of apple-tart. "For you," he whispered, and patted the big cheek as the horse munched the dainty. "No, no more now," he said, "but later, yes." Rogarin snuffled the boy's pockets, just to make sure.

"Place this soft rope around his neck," said Elladan. He made a loop in a silky tether, loose-woven, and handed it to Aragorn. The child marveled at the lights glimmering between the threads.

"Many colors in the rope, cousin," he said. "Very beautiful." He slipped it over Rogarin's ears and pulled it only so, leaving the horse no feeling of restraint.

"That is right, slack enough that he feels only a caress," instructed the elf.

"Caress, cousin? I don't know…" the child seemed perplexed.

"A loving touch, little one. Like so." Elladan stroked the boy's arm lightly and yet warmly, and through the barely pressing fingers a soft radiant charge seemed to flow. "I am your friend. Do you feel this from me through my touch?"

"Yes," whispered the boy.

"You must do so to Rogarin, and make him know always that you are his friend," the elf said seriously. There was more to this lesson than horse-handling, he thought, but what better way to begin. "We shall take him out now, and let him run a bit."

"There is ploop here," observed Little Aragorn. "Must we take it out?" He seemed to hope for an answer in the negative, and Elladan bit his lip to keep from smiling.

"We will do that later. Now let us take him out to see Arien." He led the way down another passage, and coming through a wide doorway Aragorn was dazzled by yet one more magnificent view of the valleys of Imladris. "Down here, little cousin. This way. Lead him through that small gate, and release him. Take off the rope," he added, as a puzzled look came over the boy's face. Elladan climbed onto the stone wall encircling a large field.

Aragorn did as he was told, and spoke to the horse quietly. "Run and play, my friend Rogarin. I am here." He backed away. "Now go!" The horse whinnied, shook his great frame and leapt away, bucking and galloping. Elladan reached a hand down to help the boy up on to the wall.

They sat in silence for a long while, watching the horse. "He seems to be well, in body and in heart," said the elf. "But Elrohir will have to speak with him later. And we must make a special saddle, for when you ride him alone."

"A saddle?" wondered the boy. "What saddle, what special?"

"Rogarin is a big horse. Not a pony for a small child. He needs to feel the weight of a rider… do you know this word?" Elladan searched the boy's eyes. "Weight, heavy, like this…" he took up a lonely rock and handed it to Aragorn. The child took it with both hands, and Elladan pulled one away. "Feel with one hand," he said. "Heavy, yes?"

"Yes, heavy."

"So Rogarin must feel this, heavy, on his back when you pull his reins or when you place your hands on his neck. He must feel balance. Do you know balance?"

Little Aragorn brightened up. "Yes!" he shouted, leaping to his feet and raising one leg high. "Balance!" he said happily. His posture was remarkably steady, even on the rough high surface. "And balance!" he took up a long twig and set it upright on the palm of his hand. He barely moved, yet kept the twig standing.

"Very good!" Elladan laughed, applauding the feat. "You are very clever, little cousin." He tousled the boy's hair, then continued his reasoning. "There is another balance. Look at me."

The elf took up another rock, smaller than the first, and placed one in either of the child's hands. He placed his own palms under them, and through his touch made the small hands relax and take on a slight, flowing movement, with which to gauge the weight in each hand. "More weight," he said, allowing a dipping motion, "and less." He repeated the comparison, and the relation became clear to the boy.

"More heavy, this…" he said firmly.

"And now…" Elladan took up another small rock and added it to the second, and once again went through the gauging process. "How is it, now?" he asked.

The boy dipped his burdens alternately, and said finally, "Not more heavy…"

"The same. The one, and the two."

"Yes," said the child.

"That is balance also, little cousin. The same, the one and the two." This digested, he turned and whistled to Rogarin. Far down the field, the horse pricked up his ears and turned to come towards them. The two jumped down from the wall and met him as he came up. They stroked him, and Elladan continued. "Balance. Rogarin needs to feel it. The same… the one—" he mimicked a bridle rein pulling at the horse's mouth, "and the two…" he pressed down on the high withers, then patted the back.

"The one… and the two…" Aragorn gestured with one hand and the other.

"Balance."

"Balance," echoed the boy. "Yes." He stroked the great body, exploring.

"So the saddle," Elladan continued. "We must make you a saddle with more weight, and as you grow larger and heavier we will take some out, until…" he trickled off, realizing the boy was far away. "Aragorn…" he said softly.

The child turned to him, his gray eyes dark. "Dada," he said. "Where is Dada?"


	14. The Council of the Dúnedain

Chapter Fourteen: _The Council of the Dúnedain _

Once the great hall, now dark and quiet. Not for lack of attendance, since no less than thirty men and women sat huddled together at the only table still in place. Whispers, barely; no outspoken word. Here and there a sigh, and surely tears blotted into a sleeve.

The Dúnedain were gathering for council. Even now the last horses were being taken in for the night, and latecomers hurrying to whatever seat they found open. There was no food this night, nor drink, even, and barely a bit of fire in the once-happy hearth.

Haldabar and Pethion sat at the center of the assembled family heads, Dirhael had sought out Ivorwen and settled in a corner with their arms around each other, silent and forlorn. The other weary Rangers had each joined their families as well, and the time had now come for the speaking of news. Haldabar delayed a few moments more, then rose and cleared his throat.

"I would call on the Powers to aid us at this time," he said. A murmur of assenting voices simmered through the small crowd.

"Speak, Haldabar our brother," said Ivorwen. "Tell us all that has passed since the company last rode out. Many of us have heard bits and pieces, but we should all have it alike and whole. Even if this is news we would rather never have heard."

"Indeed," said Haldabar sadly. And he told of the ride, uneventful, the pleasant sense of summer trailing into autumn, and the meeting with the Rivendell riders. "We rose that morning and set off in search of an orc-band detected by our scouts. We came upon them unawares and bested them. Only a handful escaped." His voice broke, and just barely did he tell of the evil mischance.

A wail rose, and several pressed to a tall woman, aged overnight. The sister of the Lord Arathorn finally caught herself and said, "Forgive me, Master Haldabar. Pray continue. Forgive me…"

Haldabar bent forward, his face in his hands. "We were struck as if by the great white sparks of the heavens. We fell into madness. I, myself, wished to die also in that moment." He raised himself with an effort, and continued. "The Elf-Lord Glorfindel finally roused us and called us to order."

A slight gesture to Pethion sufficed for the passing of the word, and he rose to carry on the sad recital. He told of the flight into the forest, the search for a secret grave-site, the laying of their lord on the bed of boughs and rocks. "We felt that no greater sorrow could come upon us, but then the Lady Gilraen arrived with the child…"

"My sweet…" whispered Ivorwen.

"There are not words that can tell of such heartbreak," Pethion carried on sadly. "She was brave, and Little Aragorn—" he lifted his face, smiling through the tears, "such a boy. He gentled Rogarin, who had turned to frenzy. And then we rode to Rivendell."

There was again a murmur, questioning now, and some debating on the reason. "We thought it best to take them there for safe-keeping," Dirhael rose and turned to his kinsmen and neighbors, on one hand and the other, appealing to them for approval. "And perhaps we foresaw that the healing powers of the elf-ladies would be needed… as they truly were."

No less than a dozen voices questioned the speakers, all wanting to know what had befallen the Lady and the child. None of the men had information enough to satisfy especially Ivorwen, but it finally seemed to be generally accepted that the decision had been the right one.

"When will they return?" asked someone.

"That is not the question, Balderan," said Pethion. "They are safe and secret. We are the ones who must trace new paths and build new shelters, deep and hidden. This sanctuary must be closed, each family become again shadowy silent travelers. Caves we shall have, for the keeping of our stores of goods, and huts in the thickness of the forest. We would have all of you ponder on this and choose your spots for passing the winter. Word will be circling among the families at all times."

"And come early spring," Haldabar returned, "we will meet again with the Rivendell riders and go against the goblins before they descend from the mountain passes. We must press them. They must not know what has befallen."

There was some speech more, then the people drifted away in pairs and small groups, to digest all that had been said and would be happening. Soon, on the morrow. Only a few stayed to pursue the matter further. Ivorwen had held her peace while the assembly was being addressed, but she needed answers.

"They mean not to return, is that so, Haldabar?" she directed her gaze at her kinsman and friend.

"You understand, Ivorwen, with your own subtle sight," Haldabar took her hand and pressed it. "They will be safe there, and she will be brought back to a semblance of peace… though I fear that joy is gone from her forever." His body quivered in a deep, shuddering sigh.

"Did you see her, husband?" she turned to Dirhael. "Did you speak with her about this?" She wrung her hands. "I, too, have deep faith in Master Elrond, and the lady Lynael knows her from birth. She, and Larat and Milia, will care for my girl…" her voice dropped and she rocked to and fro. "To be trapped with us and our sorrow in a sad hut through the long winter months… I know this to be an ill road for her. The silence we must now keep would only drag her down to her own early grave." She rubbed her hands over her face.

Dirhael embraced her and joined his body to her swaying motion. "I was so afraid," he whispered. "She seemed not to see me, and she spoke not. Her hand was limp and cold, though her seat in the saddle was steady. She and the boy rode upon Rogarin," he added as an afterthought.

"Before parting, we sent word to her. Only the healers answered, wished us safe passage and spoke messages for you, Ivorwen." Pethion closed his eyes to recapture each phrase. "_Seek deep in the firelight to meet us_, said one, I believe the lady Lynael. _Make a song for the winter snow, _said the minstrel-lady…"

"Milia," whispered Ivorwen, smiling despite herself.

"Yes," continued Pethion, "and the lady Larat: _Bring us the yellow herb, come quickening… _ Has this meaning for you?" The three men watched her attentively.

"I must gaze into the fire upon the evenings of winter," she said softly, as if to herself alone. "I must compose a song for one child's joy and another child's healing. And when snows have melted into spring roads, I must come to Rivendell with an herb for Larat's basket, one that grows in the wasteland this north side of the Weather Hills." She smiled again and shook her head. "Those wise, wise ladies," she whispered.

The four gathered around the dying fire. Dirhael blew upon the coals and fed small sticks into the sudden leaping flame. They spoke in low tones, telling further about the painful resolution set forward by the elf-lord.

"This is not to be known by all our people," said Haldabar. "Needless sorrow, useless questions, and finally of no account… for when he returns to us, a man, all will have been restored to him. We shall welcome back Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"This sacrifice, the secreting of Aragorn, will bear fruit," reflected Ivorwen, "but much must be done to ensure that the sprout becomes a sapling, and thus a tree."

"The Lord of Imladris will spare no effort, and surely we, too, will be called upon to deliver somewhat for his rearing," Haldabar seemed to brighten. "Yes, come spring we shall pick up the scent and carry on."

"We must face a long and cold winter, first," Dirhael mused gloomily. "The signs are there. The bark of the redsom tree, the early flocks of onkers flying south… Even in the days past, before this sadness, there was thought given to our weathering a harsh season. But we were hopeful, then…"

Ivorwen sat up at these final words. "Hopeful," she muttered, "hopeless… thus it was spoken… hopelessness, _utter hopelessness_…" The men gazed at her.

"What is it, Ivorwen?" asked Pethion, uneasily.

"My brothers, my husband… it was foretold that Aragorn would rise from _utter hopelessness_, is this not so?"

"It is," said Pethion.

"Were we so, before this day?" she looked from one to another. "We were not. Since the happy time before the birth of Gilraen's son, and more so after, we were as Dirhael has said: hopeful. Only now have we come to the state foreseen by the prophecy: _utter hopelessness._ So, be it sad or be it loathsome, we are sailing surely. And forget not the rest of the foretelling: Aragorn will _rise_, it says."

"But all the children that were to have grown up with Aragorn, what of them? The host of the Dúnedain?" Haldabar had his own concerns, having fathered two at his chieftain's urging and a third on the way. "What will we tell them of Aragorn and the Lady Gilraen?"

"Both will be sorely missed, in truth," said Dirhael. "But we must make do with stories and memories… as we have kept alive all the long happenings of our line."

"I believe there is no other youngling in all Imladris…" said Pethion sadly. "Aragorn will be a lonely child."

"I think not. I pray not," Ivorwen gazed into the fire (as her mentor had known she would). "No, he will befriend the children of the Earth. Also, his mind will fly far, and he will have friends among the great ones of the past."

They were silent again, but peace seemed to water their hearts as the warmth of the fire slowly drove the chill from their bones. Each drifted into thoughts and feelings, some shared, some secret, and finally a soft chanting became song, the ancient hymn to Elbereth. When they rose to go and seek their rest, their faces were glowing softly.

"So you need to gather a yellow herb for the lady Larat, Ivorwen?" said Haldabar as they walked along the path to their night's lodgings. "We are due an inspection of Weathertop, you know. Will you ride with us before the ground hardens and the ice bites deep?"

"I will," said Ivorwen, winking slyly at Dirhael. "Such good fortune, a train of strong men to help carry basketfuls of herbs. For once there, why not gather _athelas_, and svendargan, and... Why are you puckering, Pethion?" Their laughter melted into the night, the stars would seem to have breathed in relief.


	15. Pebbles into the WaterShrine

Chapter Fifteen: _Pebbles into the Water-Shrine _

It was still early afternoon when the Dúnedain rose and took their leave. They left the terrace down the same stairs they had climbed hours before, but somehow with hearts a little less heavy. At the very least, answers had been found to questions so terrible and painful that it had seemed they would swallow up any efforts to address them. The Elf-Lords watched them go, and blessed them in their minds.

"They have before them a long ride," said Erestor. "May it bring them no further troubles, and help settle their hearts."

"They still must face their people, and make them understand," said Gildor.

"It will go well," ventured Glorfindel. "The Dúnedain are nothing if not resilient, and there is no doubt that their greatest weight has been lifted: the safety of the Lady and the boy." He raised his hand in farewell, answering the parting signal of the group now far below.

"Yes," said Elrond, almost in a whisper, "this part has gone as well as could be hoped. If only what follows can attain as much."

"You will see the Lady now," said Gildor not in question.

"I will. We have much to speak of, if she is equal to it. I would not disturb her if she is not yet strong enough."

"I would walk with you to her lodgings," said Glorfindel. "I, too, wish to see what the healers have attained with her."

"Something, surely," said Elrohir. "I believe they are in the south gardens. I heard laughter, just now."

"Laughter!" exclaimed Glorfindel. "That would be magic indeed."

"Know you not the far reaches of the sisters?" joked Erestor. "Have you not yourself escaped from darkness through their light and song?"

"I have," said the golden-haired elf. "Verily, they will bring Gilraen back from grief and madness before her fine mind is damaged. Praised be the Valar."

The elf-lords reached the terrace before the main entrance. Erestor and Gildor took their leave and climbed the stairs to the gallery, Elrond and Glorfindel turned to the great doors, now open.

"I will seek my brother and the boy now," said Elrohir. "They were to go fishing after tending the horses. Up the valley, at the lake." He paused, then winked at his father. "At our spot, Ada."

Elrond gazed at his son as he scrambled nimbly down to the river-path. "Our spot... Too long have I not lain in its sweet shadows, waiting for a fish to bite..."

"With the line tied to your toe, Elrond. Well do I remember." Glorfindel chuckled and patted his friend's shoulder. "Perhaps now, with the boy, you will be called upon to reveal some of your lures."

"I did reveal some, to Arathorn in his day," mused Elrond. "So long ago, yet less than a brief life of men." He took Glorfindel's arm lightly. "Come. Let us seek the lady."

They turned to follow the corridor to Gilraen's quarters, and stopped at the half-open door. Within were two of the healers' apprentices, ordering the room. "In the garden, Master," said one, pointing, in response to Elrond's silent question.

"Elrohir and his sharp ears, right as always," said Glorfindel. "Shall we go this way?" he pointed to the far door.

"There is something I must fetch from my chamber, first," answered Elrond, "if you will come with me."

They retraced their steps to the entrance hall and took the stairs to Elrond's high quarters. "I put this together in hope, yestereve as I watched the boy in his mortal sleep," he said, taking from an alcove a box beautifully fashioned of fragrant woods. He lifted the lid, and within Glorfindel saw a stack of blank sheets of fine parchment, and in a smaller recess to one side, a set of writing styluses and ink blocks of several colors. Elrond took a tiny squat glass bottle with a tight stopper and raised it to the light. The content, liquid and gold, glittered as it flowed from side to side. "For the most special of letters," he said with a brief smile as he replaced it in the box.

"This is not for the boy," said Glorfindel. "A handful of years must still pass before he can revel in such a gift."

"No, my friend... this is for her. I believe it will ease her heart and fill her lonely hours if she can mold into words all the great happenings of her days, both the glad and the bad." Elrond closed the box and wrapped it in a large white linen cloth. "Let us deliver this to her quarters, then seek the ladies in the garden."

XXX

There was a tiny bay across the pool, no larger than plump pea-hen, where swirling waters were captured and stilled for short whiles. Suddenly tempted by its brief calm, Larat threw a pebble at the narrow depths. She failed, and took up another small crystal. Her shot came closer to the rounded rim, but still short. She muttered some word or other, and took up yet another pebble. This time she missed only barely, and both Lynael and Gilraen sat up to take interest in the challenge. Milia watched from a swinging seat, picking lazy notes from her harp.

"Once more," said Lynael, "then I will test my sure aim."

"Nay, twice more," vowed Larat, "five throws in all: one for each finger on my hand."

"Very well," answered Lynael, "then I will show you how to place a pebble in the very eye of a dragon!"

"Oh my goodness!" laughed Gilraen, "Such a lovely nook and you see a dragon, my dear Lynael! Has my friend some hidden anger?"

"Ha!" said Larat with pleasure. "Five was the one!" She had finally put a pebble into the little circle, rewarded by a brief splashing.

"Not anger, my sweet one," said Lynael. "Dearly do I love to mark a spot and send a flying pellet to its center. As if it were a dragon's nostril, and I a warrior in the host of the Valar destroying Thangorodrim." She aimed a missile of her own and sent it almost true. Almost, not quite.

"I will try," ventured Gilraen.

"You will wait for my other four throws, first," said Lynael. "You heard Larat set the rules." Gilraen sat back with a small snort, then began searching the ground for five good pebbles.

Lynael stood up and sent three shots in quick succession. All of them bounced off the rim. She stopped, breathed deeply and threw her last pebble without seeming to make an effort. It plopped nicely into the center of the target, and she hissed in joy.

"Now, me..." Gilraen took an archer's stance and let fly her first pebble. It flew straight to the tiny inlet and plopped into the depths. "How now!" she cried, jumping from one foot to the other. "My very first shot, into the center!"

"Ah, yes," said Larat. "Now, four more times."

Gilraen's second pebble went too high, and bounced off an outcropping rock. The third was aimed more carefully, to good avail, as was the fourth. The fifth went awry, and she swore under her breath. Still, three from five was enough to win the round.

"Very well," said Lynael. "We have warmed up, and now we can contend in earnest."

"But I did take the first round," protested Gilraen, searching again for more pebbles.

"Not at all proper proceedings," said Larat. "I threw mine from a sitting position, idly, and you both stood and shot with purpose. Now we will all stand."

"I believe you have used up all the pebbles in sight," said Milia after several rounds.

"In the water," said Gilraen. "They are plentiful in the pool-bed." She lay on the ground and reached into the depths of the whirling waters. "Here are more!" she held out her hands full of crystal pebbles. Her arms were wet almost to the shoulders, her hair damp and dishevelled, her tunic spotted with mud and grass stains. She seemed an urchin, and her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. Milia smiled and strummed.

Lynael and Larat each chose their pebbles and the three took their places at the pool's edge. The game had begun in sprinkling and laughter, but somehow taken on intense reaches, almost warlike though still in fun. Now they shot once each, in swift order, and most of the glittering missiles disappeared into the deep stony ring.

"Have you kept count, Milia?" asked Lynael suddenly.

"Not a one, dear sister," she laughed in return. "I do not keep count even in my verse and music, so hardly would I in your wild splashing game... though I believe Gilraen has had the afternoon."

"Oh, yes, oh yes!" crowed the girl, leaping in joyous victory. She joined arms with her companions and they circled in a happy jig. "We have slain the dragon, we three!"

They collapsed in laughter on the thick grass and clover, and suddenly took notice of Elrond and Glorfindel standing on the last stair leading into the little garden.

"My lords!" coughed Lynael. "We did not hear your footsteps..."

"Well, hardly," said Glorfindel, "what with mad dancing and laughter." His words were light, but great had been his astonishment moments before at the sight of the tousled ladies romping like children.

"Gilraen appears to have just been fished out of the swirling pool," smiled Elrond. He came across the grass and took her hands, kissed them and then opened her arms wide to appraise her from head to toe. "I had not seen you so, since you were but a small girl making us a feast of flowers for _lairë_."

The lady blushed and grinned at her kinsman. "It seems a child lives ever in us, even in the long-enduring Firstborn, uncle dear," she said, pushing her hair back from her forehead. "And this place, the water... it gives wings to my heart."

"Then you must come here often," said Elrond happily. "Arien still has for us hours in the middle-day hot enough to send one into the swirling waters."

"And it seems you must remove a basketful of pebbles from the little water-shrine," observed Glorfindel with a mock reprimand.

Gilraen and Larat exchanged looks of wonder, but Lynael laughed. "I know not of a water-shrine," she said.

"You have made it yourselves, this day, with your mirthful game," he smiled, "and I will come myself and toss pebbles into the circle when I have aught on my mind."

Another round of laughter rose and finally settled. "Let us walk, my dear," said Elrond, taking Gilraen's arm. "There are matters to speak of, and then put away into silence. Are you willing?"

"It must be done," she said softly. "Our happening here is not in play, I know." She glanced sideways at the elf-lord. "Already I have said that I will be ruled by you, my revered kinsman. Say, then, without fear of disturbing my peace... barely alive..."

"As I see," he began with studied calm, "there are two tasks for you to carry out. One, the first and primary for all else, is to heal yourself and make yourself whole, even as a warrior in the battlefield with a loved one falling at his side... I know this... I have been there..."

"Uncle..."

"The pain never goes away, altogether," he turned his face upwards for a moment. "But the great river flows on, and we are in it whether we will or nill. And so yourself, my dear." He stopped and steered Gilraen off the path, upwards on a small rough track. "There is a tree I would show you," he said.

"A tree?" she asked curiously.

"A wise tree. To help bring words precise and pure. Also very beautiful," he added with a smile.

Glorfindel and the healers followed, but turned off into another sheltered terrace with views to the house and the river. They sat on the grass in silence for a moment, gazing at the warm, waning afternoon.

"Gilraen," said Glorfindel suddenly, "would be a princess even in the Blessed Realm."

"She would," answered Lynael in surprise, "but why say you?"

"Her beauty at times seems ethereal, as if it would never fade… although my mind tells me that it will, as does all beauty of mortal kind." He sighed, and the sisters exchanged tiny smiling glances.

"Say on, Master," said Larat. "Your words have taken my attention. If you please."

"There is more, beyond the fetching oval of her sweet face. Beyond even her quick, deep mind." He paused, almost as if puzzled. "There seems to be a light from her," he said softly, "that comes from afar in a tiny seed and finds in her a willing womb… takes root in her marrows and glows from within…"

"Your feeling does not mislead you," said Milia, touching his breast briefly. "Her high task, we now can see, was always to give birth… bring to light… the hope of the Dúnedain. And indeed, of us all… children of Arda… children of Eru…"

"Some things are secret, even to the Valar," said Larat. "Only Eru knows at last what is in store for this little boy. And for so many, through him."

"With the happenings of these days past, so unlooked-for, I perhaps understand some things I read in the afterbirth on the night Aragorn came," mused Lynael. "Some become clearer, others do not. As yet. They may, in days to come."

"One thought stands strong in my mind," said Milia with unwonted gravity. "We have been gathered around this mortal woman and her child with a purpose that bursts like a bud awaited over a long age."

"In truth," said Larat in reflection, "not unlike the stony pod of the fire-following _lissandrin_, that keeps over countless seasons and will only flower in the aftermath of a raging fire, in a desolation of ash and cinder."

Glorfindel looked at each of the wise ladies, and stretched his hands out towards them, palms upward. The three did the same, and eight arms became the rays of a center formed by eight hands, a layered flower of flesh-and-bone fingers.

"Like a star," murmured Lynael, "thus fitting: this star, beloved ones, will rise."


	16. What Hope I Have

Chapter Sixteen: _What Hope I Have _

Elrond and Gilraen climbed further up to a recess in the mountain- side. He led her around an outcropping of rocks fallen thousands of years ago, and before her eyes there unfolded a scrap of dreaming. In the almost-magic valley of Rivendell, still she had never seen a spot such as this. And there was, indeed, a tree.

Such a tree, not so tall as plethoric, almost overfull, almost too many, countless, thick branches forming a radiance of yellow flowers around a thick, knotty trunk. The final rays of Arien seemed to love the tiny blossoms and seek them out for the last kiss of the day, flitting little circles of light through the leaves onto the green forest floor. Not to be outdone, the rocky backdrop harboured continents of moss and lichen amid its vast ocean of glittering crystals, twinkling as well in reply to Arien's warm adieu.

"It sparkles also under the beams of Isil," said Elrond to Gilraen, who stared open-mouthed, "when Tilion sails his silver boat with full canvas over Arda. And even in the softest glow of Varda's stars." He brushed his hand over the brittle surface. "And upon a time there come tiny spiders weaving early-morning webs that catch more dewdrops than flies and add their own water-twinkles to this woody jewel." He turned back to the great flowering tree. "But my deepest love is for this _megalia_, come as a seedling gift from lost Númenor... a strain from the Lonely Isle itself."

"The scent of it is bewitching, uncle," she said faintly. "I had no inkling of such a spot, even here in your house. Almost it overwhelms me."

"Surrender, my dear lady," he laughed. "There is no resisting the gentle torrent of the wise-tree. And no harm will come to you, further than putting from your mind all other matters than that which brings you to the circle of its embrace."

"One thought alone I bring to the bosom of this wise tree," said Gilraen quietly.

"Yes..." said the elf-lord.

"Aragorn, my son."

Elrond took her hand and led her to a seat formed naturally amid the twisting roots of the _megalia._ "Let us rest a moment here," he said, "and share our visions."

"I know my deep task, once for twain and now heavy on my shoulders... lonely..." the shadow of a tear fell from her words. "I must bring Arathorn's son to manhood. Such I swore before his body asleep under the mountain." She raised her eyes to Elrond's, not unlike a wounded deer. "And such I have spoken with my beloved ladies. But I am not equal to the task. Not alone."

"You are not alone in this, well you know."

"I do," she said with a tiny smile. "Even at this moment, my boy is with his kinsmen the twins... instead of shuddering in a corner as he watches me madden with grief."

"Gilraen..."

"Dear uncle, I am so grateful. These crucial hours have been spent in joyous play and discovery, instead of sinking his oneness into fear and sorrow." She lifted her hand to play in a late sunbeam surging with dust-specks.

"So we all believe," said Elrond seriously. "He must not learn fear as yet, a small child. There is a natural bit in us all, from birth or even before, which must be left strictly alone so that it remains thus, functioning naturally. No load must be added, for any reason. A child must grow up free from fear."

"Caution, one can learn; bravery, never. So have we been taught, uncle, even by you the Eldar."

"And so were the Eldar taught by the Powers, long ago…" Elrond seemed to gaze beyond the rock wall, "and I was taught along the way." He sighed.

"So, then…" she said, picking at his sleeve.

"When reason has fully blossomed," he went on, "when _self_ has been learned; when the body is shooting up and passions churning awake, then it is well to introduce and explore fully the true causes and workings of fear."

"It must be a tool for weighing and gauging," Gilraen said intensely, "not an ailment to muddle and stricken. This we spoke of, my lord and I, upon a sleepless night as we watched Aragorn work through his first bout of fever… and we were afraid, as never before. A wild, crazy fear of losing our child."

Elrond touched her hand, and she turned to face him. "But it must not blind us, we said; and we sang softly through the night, he with his tuneless voice and heart of gold. Come the day, the fever had broken."

"A sense of danger is to be most treasured," said the elf-lord, "among the parts of a warrior's armament as much as a mother's healing-chest." He gazed lovingly at his young kinswoman. "Your work, and the chieftain's, with the boy has been brilliant thus far. Elbereth with us, it will so continue… even if a swerve of direction has fallen upon us unlooked-for."

"Indeed…" she said, with such sadness that his heart ached for her.

"We have given much thought to this matter," he said seriously, searching her face again. "Earlier we met with the Dúnedain and gave them to consider a plan, one to snatch its prey from the jaws of misfortune. Are you willing that I speak, Gilraen?"

"Allow me to gaze with you, uncle."

"As we were climbing here to the _megalia _I spoke of your two tasks: the first being for you to heal yourself, and make yourself whole. Every effort, every talent in Rivendell will be bent to that purpose. I, to begin, have left in your quarters a gift, for you."

"A gift, uncle? Still more?"

A special gift which I aspire to see taking flight under your exquisite fingers, my dear lady," he said. "The box awaiting you contains that which you will require to set in writing, both poetry and faithful record, all that has passed in the life of Aragorn's father..."

"Where shall I begin?" she whispered.

"Where you will," he said carefully. "Of the greatest import, this, for his story must now pass to shadow... for the years of the child's raising."

"What say you, uncle?" she started in alarm.

"His station, secret; his sire, undisclosed: such must be the condition of this child. Not Aragorn, son of Arathorn, never more until he comes of age and can take on the heavy mantle of his kingship. For kingship it will be, Gilraen, whether in victory or defeat. Only for this is it demanded of you such sacrifice."

She was speechless. A timely bird chirped down into the _megalia_ branches, then fluttered to perch on Gilraen's knee. It cocked its beady eye at her, emitted a fussy tweet and pecked between its little talons. The girl jumped, at that, and brushed the bird away as she turned on the elf-lord again.

"What mean you?" she hissed. "Undisclosed?" She paced to the rock wall and back, her agitation increasing. "This man was the love of my life, a giant born to father twenty children." Her body shook in a terrible shudder. "Mischance, devilry, cruel fate beyond my ken have taken him from me, and now you would blot out even his memory, rob his son –his only son– of the comfort of his great love..." She crumbled to the ground, weeping now in anger and grief.

Elrond rose and approached her slowly, sinking to the ground as he reached her side. "All you feel is true," he whispered, "but this is only for a short time. When he has grown, and is ready, his story will be given back to him, and he will be reunited with the memory of his father." He touched her arm timorously. "I beseech thee, daughter dear... trust in me... in us all..."

"What say the Dúnedain men?" she asked bitterly. "Have they agreed to this plan?"

"With silent doubts, but trusting in the end," he said slowly. "Nothing is further from my heart than to take from Arathorn his just reward, his high place in our chronicles. You must know this. Forget not that he, too, was fostered in my house, and I loved him as my own. I fed his heart and mind with what very best I had, to make of him a great king, one to unite the free peoples of Middle-Earth against the Enemy."

Gilraen looked up, struggling with a smile. "He was, in truth... he would have..."

"He did his part," interrupted Elrond firmly, "and only Eru knows why his time was so brief. We, here, cannot truly gauge the high import of his union with you, gifted woman, and the star risen over the head of the son brought forth between you." He looked deep into her eyes. "I, too, am trusting. This counsel is not sprung from me alone, but even harvested from whispers brought in meditation... in the water..." He lifted his finger to his lips in the timeless gesture of _quiet_...

"Uncle... my lord..."

"You must play your part, Gilraen, or we shall hardly arrive," he said, taking her hand and rising, "and I haven't a notion of where we would be, then." He returned to the _megalia_ and pressed his body against the ancient trunk. He passed his palms over the rough surface, lovingly, and finally turned back to the girl watching him, almost in rapture. "What say you, daughter?"

"Who is Gilraen to stop the flood of spring waters?" she said, caught between sadness and inspiration. "My hand and my word are with you, dear uncle."

The Lord of Imladris turned away from the tree and the rock wall, closing his eyes and seeming to knead the air with his palms hollowed. "A dense quality is lifting," he said. "There are powers at work in our favor... as we toil in the same cause..."

"Let us seek my ladies and Master Glorfindel," she said, almost cheerful. "Then perhaps we may go to find the boys... my boy, I mean, and yours forever youthful." She turned back to the mystical haven and blessed the _megalia._ "Thank you for bringing me hither, my lord. I deem it is not open to many."

"Come whenever you like, but come alone."

"I understand, uncle." They rounded the outcrop and returned to the wide view of the valley and the four companions singing softly below. Gilraen made out three strains in the High-Elven Quenya speech, of a song unknown to her. As they neared, she perceived a dialogue between a hunter and a gatherer, spied upon by a witness and all guided at last by the picking and strumming of Milia's harp. Their argument was not yet settled and would have to wait upon another day, as the four joined the two and trotted down to the river path.

They turned towards the upstream, but Glorfindel stayed his companions for a brief moment. "The last look of her," he said, as if reaching for the sliver of Anar sinking into the rim of the Misty Mountains. The six watched in silence as the final bit of bright vermilion slipped behind the black peaks, and then raised their eyes to the wide dome above, to the first tiny sparks of Varda. A whispered prayer of thanks came from them as one, and they took the upstream path with jauntier step than had been all day.

Elrond fell a pace behind with Glorfindel, and all was told though no word passed between them. Gilraen and the sisters joined their hands and laughed, also without words, adding a skip here and there to their footsteps and, always Milia, a stolen bit of song at an instant.

Of a sudden, at a rise in the path ahead appeared first the heads and shoulders of the identical sons of Elrond, then the bouncing little boy rounding them and hopping from one to the other. His fingers clutched the end of a cord, at whose end swung a fish half his own size, silvery wet and gleaming. His happy cries reached Gilraen and her companions, stopped in their tracks and holding their breath.

"My son," she said softly, then crying out, "my son! My sweet son! Come to Momo—"

"Call him not _Aragorn_!" Elrond cut in, swiftly. "Name him anew, quickly... from your heart, now!"

"Estel!" she cried, lapsing into the Sindarin tongue of her childhood. "Come to Momo, my love... show me your big beautiful fish!"

"Fish, fish, fish!" crowed the ecstatic child, dancing around his mother and re-enacting the scene with the prime character in his hands. "He came to me, to my line, to my lure, like this..." he drove the fish through the ripples of air around them, now cautious, now greedy, finally succumbing to a tiny shake of the lure. "Ha!" cried the boy, then stopped suddenly and looked aside at his mentor. "Elladan made for me a fine lure..." he lowered his voice and confided to his mother, "a secret one, of Ada and Elladan and Elrohir... and now, of Aragorn." His grey eyes twinkled, and he raised a finger to his lips, made a soft shushing sound, and went on. "But, Momo, fish come to the lure, go back again, come, go back again... then Elrohir show me–" he held up his index finger, then added one by one the remainders, whispering, "ah... sa... fe... tuu... taan... jaaa..." finally closing them joined loosely at the tips. "Fish says jaaa, and..." he mimicked a deep gulping sound and gesture.

The fish was hooked, the players applauded, the listeners well-served. As night seemed to rise from the depths of the valley, they directed their steps to the gallery. All the way the boy plunged his fish to and fro, free now forever from the toils of this life and soon to pass –cooked in herbs– into the grateful body of his victor.


	17. By the Grace of Our Lady Kementari

Chapter Seventeen: _By the Grace of Our Lady Kementari _

Aragorn awoke in stages. Far away, eyes yet unopened, songbirds trilling a tune for the morning sun, his first sense of the day. A good, good bird-whistling. He found himself suddenly in his body, as he did every time he came out of sleep, and joyously contracted and expanded his limbs, twisting his agile little frame up, down, to either side, and back into a tight ball. He laughed and called out his greeting to the day, and opened his eyes to the bright sunlight in the Hall of Fire.

So bright, that he had to cover his eyes again, but not before he saw the beloved form of his mother, reclining on a divan close by. "Momo!" he cried, still not taking his hands from his face. "Bright sun, Lady Arien!"

Gilraen laughed and came to his side, placing herself in the early sun-rays and shading the child's face. He had fallen asleep the night before on a wide couch that faced both the eventide fire-hearth and the daytime window; a debate had arisen over the question of taking him elsewhere to sleep out the rest of the night, and all had finally agreed to let him stay as he was. "He is, after all, safe..." she had thought, "and someone will surely sit here yet for hours..." She had gone to her own rest with the healers, and had awoken early to come and watch her little son rise out of sleep... as she seemed to never tire of.

"Was your journey pleasant, my love?" she stroked his tousled hair and he took his hands away. His bright eyes blinked into focus, and he took one of her long tresses lovingly, brushing the ends over his nose and cheeks.

"Hungry, Momo," he said happily, "hungry very hungry. We must go to see Vaneta and eat good food with her." This purpose burned him far more than the autumn sun, and he jumped up to hug Gilraen like a little bear.

Her heart ached, and she fought to press down the rising tears. "Let us go, my love. You lead me, for I have not yet seen Vaneta's kitchen."

"It is wonderful," said the child in ecstatic anticipation, taking her hand and pulling her out almost at a run. "There is Brother Jim Jam, who watches out for good flavors to stay on our plate, not fly out the window with good smells..." he recited the vital task seriously, then laughed again. "Very funny, this pot with big ears and good, good sweet jam inside!" He described with gestures and then made the Brother Jim Jam face, drawing a giggle from his mother.

They trotted along the hallways and soon came to the happy kitchen. Vaneta was indeed there, up to her elbows in flour dough and singing at the top of her lungs, along with three other elves, two seeming youths and a maiden, who added dancing to the funny song. Aragorn joined instantly, clapping and leaping, quickly figuring the steps and following the tune with "Lo-lo-lo" and other wide-open sounds.

They whirled to a stop, the elves laughing and applauding their spontaneous partner. "And who is this graceful dancer, Vaneta?" asked one of the youths. The others took notice of Gilraen, quietly standing in the doorway, suddenly shy and far-removed from dance and song.

"I am--" began the child.

"Estel!" his mother put in quickly, coming forward and taking his hand to lead him to the table. He looked at her strangely, then turned his attention to the fine spread set before them. While they had been finishing the final twirls of the dance, Vaneta had arranged on the table plates and platters, large and small, open and covered, flagons of hot, warm and cool. She turned from the hearth-stove shaking a frying pan with one hand and emptying a sheetful of fresh cakes into a basket with the other. She set aside the baking sheet and covered the cakes with a napkin, pushing the basket to the center of the table. Still shaking the frying pan, she came around to her two new patrons.

"Are you ready?" she said cheerfully, taking up a sharp knife and deftly slicing in two parts the contents of the pan.

"Yes!" shouted the child, then suddenly subdued his tone with a sidelong glance at his mother. "Yes, Vaneta, thank you," he amended.

"For my favorite hungry boy," she said, turning onto his plate a half of an omelette and then sliding the other onto Gilraen's. "You must taste and tell me, later, what you think is in this egg-torte. You will surely know, my lady," she said to Gilraen, "but you must let the boy find out for himself, if you please."

"Of course," said Gilraen graciously, "although I believe this portion is far too large for me. I will taste a bit, and give the rest to Estel," she could not avoid stressing the name slightly, "who is almost done with what you served him." She took a small bite and marvelled at the subtle and yet piquant blend of flavors. "Indeed, Vaneta," she said, "delicious. Thank you."

Estel watched her take another small bite, then gazed down at his own empty plate. Gilraen chuckled and said, "Yes, yes, my son, here is this more." His eyes opened wide and eager as the piece of omelette passed to his plate, and muttering his thanks he applied himself gravely. Gilraen took a little cake from the basket and reached for Brother Jim Jam, while Vaneta poured out a hot fragrant brew in a large cup for her.

The other three elves watched in silence as mother and son fed themselves in such different fashions. She, barely nibbling, easily distracted; he, stashing away with enthusiasm just short of ferocity. "Such a small boy," said the maiden, "where does he put it all?"

The egg-torte dispatched, Estel had already reached into the basket and was spooning jam from the Brother onto his plate. "One other color, today, from Jim Jam," the child pointed out to Vaneta.

"Yes, my love," she said. "This jim-jam is different. Another color, another smell..." she sniffed demonstratively, "and... taste... another flavor..." She dipped a bit of cake into the jam and handed it to the boy. "Taste."

Estel, grinning widely, took the cake and popped it into his mouth. His eyes went wide, and searched back and forth as he chomped the bite and finally swallowed. "A new jim-jam, a new flavor... very good. Very good, Vaneta!" He licked his fingers and then stopped, turning his little hands over and regarding the sweet traces. "A fine color, also. It is beautiful," he said almost sadly.

"What is it, my son?" asked Gilraen attentively. "What are you thinking?"

"This fine color, like Agadil makes the jim-jam. The color... the same," he displayed with his fingers, "the flavor... not the same..." His fingers strayed apart. "But good," he brightened, "good Vaneta jim-jam, good Agadil jim-jam..."

Gilraen scooped her son up and held him in a tight embrace. She whispered into his ear, very softly, "Speak not of our far-distant home, my love. Speak not of Dada," she choked back a sob, "and speak not your Dúnedain name. Say not _Aragorn_, and come to me when I call you _Estel._"

"What is Estel, Momo?" he whispered in turn.

"Estel is hope, my love... you are Hope... you are Estel."

"Hope, Momo... ho-o-o-o-ooo-pp..." the child explored the unknown word. "Ooo-o-a-a-AA… hap- hap- py… Happy, Momo! Estel is Happy!" So pleased with his conclusion, the boy struggled out of his mother's embrace and hopped a jig along the bench to the three elves watching him. "Dance again?" he incited them: needlessly, as they were wont to express as much in twirling and stepping as in speech or even song.

They took his hands and swirled him into a round, trotting now right, now left, and kicking their heels backwards as if running together into the center of the circle. He crowed with laughter as they came to a halt with a final Ha!, and only then noticed that the three lady-healers had appeared and were now surrounding his mother with their embraces.

"Beloved ladies," said Vaneta, showing them to seats next to Gilraen, "you are welcome to this table. Will you have some little cakes, a bite of cheese?" she quickly turned the contents of a pot onto a plate and set it before the sisters, pulling the basket towards them as well. "And a cup of warm brew?"

"What have you given the lady Gilraen to drink?" asked Lariat, coming to the hearth and sniffing appreciatively.

"This brew, dear lady," said Vaneta, serving a mug and passing it to Lariat.

"Hmm," said the healer, "it is perfect. Thank you, Vaneta. Always you know the most fitting food or drink… She must have more of this. And for us all, never too much of a wonderful vigor-essence."

"Did you not teach me yourself, lady, that food and drink are the building-stones of all healing?" Vaneta took a dry spray of herbs tied with a red string, and placed it in the hands of Lariat reverently. "For the basket," she said with a smile.

The healer bowed her thanks and turned back to the table, where Lynael and Milia were tasting the contents of the platter Vaneta had set out for them. Estel, too, was interested in the shiny yellow balls the size of a cherry. Gilraen alone abstained, but lightened her mood watching all the greedy fingers picking cheese-globes out of the oily froth so deliciously.

"Allow some for me, if you please," said Lariat, taking a seat in front of the platter at Estel's side. She quickly plucked and ate three in train, and rolled her eyes in bliss, exchanging joking gestures with the boy. "And what will this poor, hungry child wash his breakfast down with, maker of wonders?" she called to Vaneta.

"Special for him, _shacorot_, from my secret hoard," answered the elf-woman from the hearth. She returned with a decorated gourd set in a little round wooden frame with three legs, wisps of steam drifting out to tickle nostrils and taste-buds. "Drink slowly, my love, for it is somewhat still hot, perchance…"

Estel turned the curious vessel a full round, gazing closely at the designs carved into the gourd. "Momo," he said, turning to his mother.

"Tiny bits of fire, my son, placed for a moment against the face of this well-formed gourd, dry and hollowed." She, too, admired the minute markings on the drinking-cup, and then took a whiff of the contents. "And what is inside would be just so…"

The boy took the gourd carefully and brought his lips to the rim, watching the others from the corner of his eye. Then his full attention was captured by the first sip of the liquid in the gourd, and he heard no more until the last drop was gone. He stared at Vaneta and said nothing, barely forming silent syllables with his mouth still wet with the sweet brown liquid. She replied in the same fashion, and between them a pact was sealed from that day forward.

"We will take this lady now to her bath and rubbing," said Lynael.

"Estel will stay with us for a while, will you not, my love?" smiled Vaneta quickly at the wondering child.

"Ye-e-e-s," he said uncertainly, looking at each lady one by one. His eyes rested at last on the spray in Lariat's hand, and he jumped up purposefully. "Car-mi-la-e!" he shouted in triumph. "You have _carmilae_… but… very…"

"Dry," Lariat completed the thought. "You see, Estel, plants may become dry, and yet retain their scent. You caught it with your clever little nose…" She tickled the tip of his nose with the spray, and then laughing all they turned away and whisked Gilraen out of their sight.

"Will you come out and greet the _carmilae_ on the terrace, little master?" said Vaneta with a gesture towards the sunlight pouring through the door into the kitchen. "Also, you must smell a new herb. Did we not say?"

"We did," said Estel intensely. He trotted out to the terrace, followed by Vaneta and the other three elves, silent all this while. "Here is _carmilae,_" he stopped at the little bush he had acquainted himself with, the day before. "Hello," he whispered into the leaves, "I am happy to see you… I am happy… happy… I am Estel, happy," he finished softly and touched his lips to the little bush. He remained so for a moment, then rose to see what more Vaneta would display for him.

"This," she beckoned quietly. He approached with little cat-steps, and jumped nimbly onto a stool she indicated. She held him close by the shoulders and drew her face next to his, whispering, "This pretty white flower, not the most beautiful of all, but surely the true love of this tiny angel," she pointed discreetly at the little black bee emerging from the corolla of the waxy white blossom.

"A bee," breathed Estel. "Little, black… new!" The _millipon_ flew away, and Estel gasped and covered his mouth. "I frightened the bee…" he whispered apologetically.

"I don't think so, sweetness. I believe her work was done in this white flower." Ranon came close to Estel and pointed his attention to the petal the bee had pattered out on. "See the tiny, tiny specks of yellow, like a little trail she left behind?"

"Yes, yes," whispered Estel excitedly, "into the flower…"

"This is her work, the _millipon._ We call this bee like so, _millipon,_" Ranon added, upon seeing the question in Estel's face_._ "She takes the tiny yellow specks from flowers to her home, hers and her sisters', and they make honey."

"Yes," said Estel conversationally, "bees make honey." He spotted another _millipon_ and inspected it closely.

"You had never seen a _millipon_, little master?" Estel shook his head. "Well, then," continued Ranon, "I'm sure you would like to taste her honey." Estel nodded brightly. "Come," she took his hand and they skipped back to the kitchen to inspect the larder. "Vaneta and the boys will come, too."

Estel was astounded by the wealth in the larder. His eyes darted from vessel to basket to hanging net, and his fingers twitched. Ranon, less impressed, quickly found the special honey-pot and took it back to the table. She spooned out a dab and handed it to Estel. "Taste," she commanded.

The other three had come to the doorway to watch the appraisal, and were rewarded by the funny faces Estel made. He clearly could not make up his mind, and finally held out the spoon and said, "More." He grinned at them and added, "Maybe… this honey is strange." He gulped down the other sample, however.

"We use the _millipon_ honey for special brews, and for healing wounds and illnesses, little master," said Niboi. "Other bees make our honey for eating. You know them."

"Yes, I do," said Estel, "in the forest."

"Ranon is the lady of the bees, my love," Vaneta said to the boy. "She knows them all, and their homes, and their love-songs, and work-songs…"

"And angry-songs!" crowed Estel, suddenly remembering.

They chuckled in agreement, and then Vaneta returned to the sideboard where she had left the flour-dough. "Will you come and see, Estel?" she called, pointing.

"Yes," the child answered, then gasped. "I must smell the true love of this tiny angel, Vaneta!" He turned back out onto the terrace, and climbed to carefully sniff the plant, both the leaves and the blossom. Satisfied, he hopped back to the kitchen on one foot.

Darmel, the other elf, said, "The true love is called _sersan,_ young Estel."

"_Sersan,_" the child repeated seriously. "Yes."

"Now, Estel!" called Vaneta once more, "we will cook little cakes! Come!"

The boy ran to her and climbed onto a high stool. She poured a bit of fragrant liquid onto his palms, and gestured for him to rub them together. He did so, curious and tickled, and finally she wiped his hands with a cloth. "Now, my love, look to the mass of _veyat_-meal, take what will fit in your hand and pull it away… now roll, and roll, and turn over and roll, and pat…" she guided his motions with her own, and his cake began to take shape. "Now, pick up… careful… on the sheet… into the fire…"

Estel watched attentively each step of the baking, made several more cakes himself, and finally turned his attention to the remaining dough. "What is this, Vaneta?" he asked, poking the soft mass.

"This and this," she answered, pointing to a measure full of meal and a vessel with a creamy content. "And some of these," picking up an egg, "and bits of ab, yan, sus and mof," she indicated four small pots, lifting each cover in turn. "And mix, mix, mix, and turn, turn, turn, and roll, roll, roll. Then pinch, then pat, then fire, then cool, then eat, eat, eat!"

The child's eyes were shining, his taste buds quickly registering new memories while his mind reviewed and followed the sequence. "This…" he said, pinching a bit of meal and showing it to Vaneta.

"_Veyat,_ my dear," she said. She turned and uncovered a large stone jar, twice the height of Estel, and lifted him to see inside. "_Veyat._" She put him down and reached into the jar, took a handful of grains out and spread them on the table. The boy took one and looked it over, put it between his incisor teeth and crushed carefully, then inspected it once again. Vaneta took the grains and put them in a grinding vessel, then applied a pestle in circular movements, counting in a singsong rhyme. She stopped and took out the pestle, and Estel craned his neck to see inside. He reached in and took a bit of the light-colored meal. His eyes lit up again.

"_Veyat_," he said dreamily, "cakes. Good."

"_Veyat _ comes to us from Our Lady Kementari, Estel," said Darmel. "It grows in the fields and up the mountain. Will you come and see?"

"Oh, yes," said Estel. "We go now?" He looked to Vaneta for reassurance.

"Go, my love," she said, stroking his cheek. "It is not far. Darmel, Niboi and Ranon will show you the treasure-places where our food is born. Some, today, and others later. Bring me a pretty stone!" she added as the four tripped out the door into the sunshine, then whispered, "…one that sparkles like your eyes, child of the starlight."




	18. In the High Chamber

Chapter Eighteen: _In the High Chamber_

Elladan sealed the binding on an arrow and added it to the pile. He took another shaft and held it up lengthwise to his eye, rotating it slowly with his breath held in. He marked a small bulge and selected a curious tool from the chest open before him, which his brother had just now put down.

"We should have another of these," he said to Elrohir.

"Indeed," answered his brother. "We shall make one with Master Aülean this winter, for I believe he has gathered the required bits of mithril."

"More and more I love to watch him working it," said Elladan. "Such a strange and beautiful stuff, and so difficult to drive from ice to water to ice again." He turned the tool and found the alignment marks. It seemed to be a bit of metal pipe, but upon closer scrutiny there could be seen tiny blades of the mythical dwarf-silver around the inside of the tool, amazingly sharp, arranged in a slightly spiraling order. Into the hollow of the tube went the slim rod that would be an arrow, and the skillful stroking of the tool over the wood sliced away the bulge that Elladan had noticed. Minutes later, a perfect shaft emerged.

"When we take the little eagle up into the forest, we must gather a sackful of great _kaia_ thorns," Elrohir mused, "and he can learn to whittle them into sharp arrowheads of the second rank."

"Would you set him to tasks of weaponry, so soon?" Elladan wrinkled his brow. "He is still so very small, barely discovering wonder. There will be time enough for blades and shafts…"

"Perhaps," said Elrohir, "but have you not seen him teasing the Lord Arathorn to let him handle his great knife? Like a fox at a rabbit-hole, relentless, that boy." He smiled, nevertheless, for the child's mettle pleased him to no end.

"And where is the knife now? It was surely brought away from the burial," queried Elladan, "for it is to be an heirloom for the Lord Aragorn, who will be."

"I believe Master Glorfindel has it in his keeping. Perhaps Ada will bid him hold it for this time, while memory would be jolted by the sight of it, and distress for the father." Elrohir fell silent. However wisely the boy may be guided, the loss would never heal, he knew. He looked up and caught his brother's eye, watching him.

"I, too, think of her each morning, each evening. I see her wondrous eyes in the river, her voice drifts on the garden breeze. Always, my brother. As do you." Elladan turned back to the task at hand, binding the sharp pointed head to the feathered shaft with a strong silken thread, finally sealing it with a drop of resin that would harden and hold for many months.

"Ada believes that she will be well again, in Blessed Aman. He will cross over sea and be with her for the ages to come, and perhaps his pain will also be forgotten: the long years have cooled his anger and he is content to bide his time, even relieved that she is removed from danger. From the hard choices to come," Elrohir trailed off, and took up again the metal arrowhead he was sharpening.

"And ourselves?" asked Elladan. "Will we take the ship to Valinor and forsake Middle Earth forever, or watch Ada's sail slip away and send only greetings to our _elena_?"

"Perhaps the choice will be lifted from us, and the war against Sauron will gain us swift passage to the halls of Mandos," Elrohir grinned and punched his brother's arm. "For now," his eyes were suddenly serious, "our thoughts and intent must flow to one cause only: bring the boy to the Chieftainship, and then ride with him to recover one and both kingdoms."

"Arathorn was nurturing this plan himself," mused Elladan. "Before many summers faded, he would have taken the road to Gondor and laid his claim. Or at least, sought an alliance."

"The Enemy has gained respite and precious hours, while little Aragorn grows his feathers," Elrohir muttered. "The accursed one may not know clearly why, but he will perceive a silence in his favor. And he will move."

"The beast is never idle, my brother. But you say true: he has won a round without knowing." Elladan brightened. "And that may be our gain. He will have lost the thread, even think that the line is ended. When the Dúnadan confronts him, it will be again the stature of Elendil; I foresee it."

"Ada comes." Elrohir rose and stood in the doorway, gazing down the long stairway at his father climbing jauntily. "His step is lively on this fine morning."

Elladan leaned over the window sill and whistled a piercing little tune in greeting. A visit from Elrond to their high chamber was a precious event, coming perhaps only once in a full season. He reached the narrow terrace and took in the twins at a glance before turning to behold the most magnificent of all views of Rivendell.

"Yes," he said. "I will come up here even once in each round of Isil. So much beauty, such peace for the mind and the heart."

"Peace until you cross our threshold," teased his son from the window. "Once inside, you will gaze upon no less than a thousand arrows… spears and blades and bows on every side. Shields, coats of mail, helms and gauntlets. Boots, shin-guards, armor for our brave steeds…"

"Enough, enough," laughed Elrond. "But I believed you kept the metal weapons in store at the smithies, with Aülean. What labor to carry all such to this great height, only to take it down again when its time comes."

"Elladan is joking, Ada," Elrohir laid an arm around his father's shoulders and ushered him in through the door. "Here we have only the thousand arrows and the lot of longbows. The room is small enough."

"A love-nest, once upon a time. No need for great halls, then."

"Ada!" the twins exclaimed in unison.

Elrond laughed at the shocked look on his sons' faces. "I am teasing, _mellon_… perhaps!" He chuckled and took a seat across from the tool chest. He could not refrain from inspecting this artifact and that, exchanging glances of understanding with the two tall _peredhil_ warriors, his progeny. "Who will be Beleg this year? How goes the tally?" His attention now seemed taken by a beautiful bow of dark red wood, heavily veined.

"We shall say on the winter long-night, when the last shot is reckoned," Elladan said happily. "As we stand, my score is clearly ahead."

"The winter hunting will even us out, braggart," his twin frowned horribly. "I miss not a shot against the bright snow, when others must squint their eye and waver."

"So true!" cried Elrond. "I do believe that the count will not be decided until the very last afternoon. Or evening, with you archers shooting in the dying light of day… if not by Tintallë's candle-sparks…"

"Beleg Cuthalion is with us always, Ada," said Elladan softly. "Can it be that he went not to Mandos, but lay in the earth until the wave broke mighty Sirion from mouth to wellsprings? And drifting in love for these lands, never wishing another, strayed over wide plains and high mountains in search of the children of Thingol?"

"Eru alone knows all, my son," Elrond answered slowly. "Great hearts are not bound to roads travelled by the many."

"Also, his passing was in grief and horror, a ghastly mistake entwined in the curse of Morgoth on Hurin and his house," reflected Elrohir, "and as such it may be that his spirit was inclined to seek redress of sorts, perhaps."

"Your thoughts give him substance, my sons. His name embodies the drive of you in your search for greater and greater deeds. This is very powerful, and would best be kept between you alone."

The twins nodded, and each of the three drifted into their own reveries. After a while, Elrond spoke again. "There is, also, in the fate of Beleg, a warning for those of the Eldar that give their love and friendship to mortals, who with their brief life-spans burn so fiercely… Has it not many times passed that one of the First-born lays down the life of the body for love of a Mortal? Finrod Felagund, even, and above all Luthien the Beloved. And Beleg, at the sad hand of Turin who was like unto his brother."

"And yet at this very time we have among us a little mortal eaglet, who has taken our hearts without a struggle. Yours, Ada, foremost," Elladan smiled and patted his father's knee.

"Ours have been in his small grasp for a time, now," added Elrohir. "Ever since the Lord Arathorn first galloped up to a forest camp with this tot bound to his body." He sighed. "That man loved his son so ardently… as if he knew, somewhere, that he had little time with him."

"And now the boy is with us, and we must shorten our days as we shorten our strides to let him keep up." The elf-lord rose and went to the window.

"How so, Ada, shorten our days?" Elladan inquired.

"The Eldar may ponder an issue during the entire growth of a great oak, and yet leave the final word for another time," Elrond gazed intently for a moment at a spot far below, then continued. "Estel has not the endless flow of seasons. He must learn quickly, and arrange his growing knowledge daily. So much is pending on his arrival at manhood, so many in such need of him. His years for growing and learning are all too brief: a score, at most. Once his name and lineage are revealed to him, he will not have a life of his own… a traveler, a warrior, a green-and-brown shadow in the forest, a gray wisp on a rocky hillside… a horseman, a swordsman…"

"A poet, maker of music; a healer. A leader of men. A king, such as your own brother chose to be." Elrohir sighed. "I would we had seen him, walked with him. Elros."

"Yes, a king he shall be," Elrond reflected. "But a secret king of a secret people."

"It may be, we were saying just now," Elladan looked from one to the other, "that this Chieftain may rise to make his claim in the face of the Enemy. Unite the scattered line of Númenor. We had perceived such intent in the Lord Arathorn."

"There are signs, verily," said Elrond, spreading his arms wide, "from the night he came to life and even before, such did Lynael tell in those days. But nothing I found to warn us of this passing."

"As you say, some things only Eru knows," said Elladan.

"So we will take him up to the forest, Ada, on the morrow. Would you come with us, for one night?" Elrohir seemed to entrap his father, applying his subtle skill.

"I am no fish to come to your songs and lures, my son," laughed the elf-lord, "but I can hardly wish for greater joy than walking in the forest with you. And with Estel, now. I will come, and thank you for counting me into your plan."

"It is done, then!" cried Elladan. "We will make a day of it, and dazzle the boy."

"Where is he now, do we know?" asked Elrohir.

"He is up the mountain with the growers," said Elrond. "He has been delving in the wonders of eating, baking, kneading, milling, harvesting, growing… unraveling the entire story. Vaneta is so taken with him."

"You are right about the shortness of his days, Ada. For this beloved boy, innocence will pass in the flutter of an eyelid," Elrohir sighed. "A score of years … I have spent longer in choosing the cut and color of a tunic!"

"And yet, that is what we have," said Elladan with a sad smile. "We must be a little mortal in our ways, now, so he learns the seasons and pulses of Men."

The three were silent for a while, then Elrond spoke again. "I would know your thoughts on the Lady Gilraen, my sons. How did you find her, yestereve?"

"Fragile, and yet strong," Elladan volunteered. "It seems promising that she stayed the hours with us in the Hall of Fire, and I believe she was comforted."

"I marked what she said, of her dreams of Nienna," Elrohir straightened up suddenly. "That the Lady of Tears has come to her in the hours of sleep, whispering enlightment on the hidden nature of sorrow."

"These would be precious words, indeed," said Elrond. "All the more needful that she take up her inks and stylus, and build into the knowledge gathered here." He rose to go, stopping first to take in once again the wonderful view. "We must have story and song this evening, at the Fire. I believe Milia has something new for us, inspired by this mother and son placed in our charge. Bring you a fine tale, fit for them both." He took the downward path spryly, sure-footed as a mountain ram, whistling up a scrap of melody.

"Ada is lighter today than I have seen in many moons," Elladan settled back into his deep chair and picked up another wooden rod. "The child has broken into his heart."

"And we must bring a tale to the Fire, he says," his brother said, wrinkling his brow in deliberation. "Could it be the Two Trees of Valinor? I believe Estel will see them easily, and they will stay with him forever."

"They shall, and their mingled radiance will give him sight into any darkness the Enemy may send," Elladan said firmly. "You have chosen well, my brother, as is your wont. Let us prepare, then, and assign ourselves parts, speeches and songs. We will make a show of it, Elrohir, for Estel to keep with him always."


	19. Up the Mountain

Chapter Nineteen: _Up the Mountain_

Estel could hardly take in all that his eyes were capturing. Like an eagle, indeed, he espied from afar and swiftly pounced upon objects of his fascination, though there the likeness ended: he crushed nothing, destroyed nothing, and rather devoured them with sharp eye and eager nose. Only then would he venture a fingertip, as Gilraen had carefully schooled him, and perceive through the lightest touch the tiny vibration of emanated by the creature, be it rock, leaf or free-moving.

The elves were astounded. They followed closely when he scampered ahead, and stood at ease while he probed into his little mysteries. They had, at times, seen the mortal Dúnedain, but never one so small. Or so lively. And certainly, so full of glee and chatter. He inquired after all things new, every step of the way, and greeted familiar ones as old and intimate friends.

"This child will never be lonely," whispered Ranon. "He is near kindred with all the tiny lives around him. I could hardly believe such a one to be."

The child stopped suddenly and moved not a hair, crouched down and slightly forward with his feet gripping the ground. His sight riveted on a small flying insect. "Another bee, Ranon," he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

"Let her settle," she murmured back. Together they watched the bee float from one flower to the next, finally choosing a purple blossom with petals swirling into a deep funnel. "Is she akin to the tiny angel in Vaneta's garden, young Estel?"

"Not very, very near kin, longer in this part," he said, running his hands along his own sides to demonstrate the insect's thorax. "And more brown, less black."

"Very good, young master," said Ranon, pleased. "And look. She is fuzzy brown here, and her big fat tail is shiny black."

"She makes honey, Ranon?" asked Estel greedily.

"Not for us, my dear," she answered. "These ladies do not live in great hives, like our bees of honey, where all of them labor together in making the golden sweet. This one and all her kind live in small nests with their own little children, like a family, and eat the tiny yellow specks. They make no honey, and think nothing of stabbing your fingertip with the sharp dagger on the end of her tail."

"Ah!" Estel drew back his hand and scrutinized the dangerous bee. "We must be careful. She is not our friend." He frowned, and his fingers twitched. "Should we crush her with this rock?" He lifted a flat stone and examined it doubtfully.

""If you break her life under the stone, all her babies will be hungry and lonely. Do you want this for them?" Ranon looked deep into the child's eyes.

"No-o-o-o…" he said, his eyes moist.

"Also," continued Ranon in a lighter tone, "there is much of importance in her work, even if she makes no honey for us." He looked up at her, inquisitively. "When she flies into a flower and takes the tiny yellow specks, you see she leaves a trail…"

Estel nodded. "Like the _millipon_," he said.

"Yes. And when they come out, and fly to another flower and go deep inside, like this," she pointed with a slender blade of grass to the parts of the purple flower, "they drop some of the tiny yellow specks from the other flower. From many other flowers."

"And then what happens?" whispered Estel, sensing the enormity of her words.

"Fruits, and seeds, and more flowers will be born," she whispered back. "Arda will dress herself in beauty, each spring, and the circle will continue always." She looked up at the clouds gathering in the north. "This is the plan devised by Our Lady Kementari," she said. "It is a good plan. It provides for us all, all her little children."

"Little bees have big work," the child said happily.

"Little bees, and bigger bees. Some the size of your hand, some tinier even than the _millipon_. Some make honey, some do not, like this _sestrix_. Some are angry bees and sting, some do not sting but bite, like an ant, and some are gentle and harmless." Ranon seemed to see them all around her. "They all do the great work of Our Lady."

"Not only the bees precious to your heart, Ranon," interjected Niboi. "This great work is also done by butterflies, tiny birds and even tinier bats."

"How, butterflies into a little flower?" wondered Estel. "And what is _bat_, Niboi?"

"Butterflies, birds and bats do not go inside the flower, like bees do. They have long, long tongues," he stopped and pushed out his tongue as far as it would go, "and they reach into the flower with them. They drink the sweet water of the flower, and pull along bits of tiny yellow specks that may rub off in the next flower they visit. Have you seen the tiny birds kissing the flowers, Estel?"

"Tiny birds," he said, searching his memory, "no, no tiny birds. And no bats."

"You will see them when the new green comes," promised Niboi. "I will take you to hunt for them in the warm places of the valley. Tiny birds in the day, tiny bats in the evening."

"Birds in the day, bats in the night?" the child puzzled. "What are _bats_?"

"They fly like birds, little one, but they are not birds. They have fur, not feathers, and snouts instead of beaks. And you know that birds lay eggs, and their babies are born from the egg after many days." Niboi's nimble fingers produced illusions as he spoke, eggs from round stones, feathers from blades of fuzzy grass.

"Yes!" cried Estel excitedly. "They sit in the nest, many days, and make the eggs warm. This Momo showed me--" he caught himself, remembering Gilraen's words before. "Momo showed me," he finished lamely, a bit sad.

Niboi pulled him up onto his shoulders, swinging the child away from sudden sorrow, and continued, "Bats' babies are born like dogs' babies, and cows', and horses'…"

"And Eru's children's," Ranon said mischievously.

"You have seen dogs' babies, Estel?" Niboi turned the child's inquisitive ear from the provocative statement. How would they ever work their way out of that story? "Or tiny mice, or forest creatures?"

Before the child could dig up an answer, Niboi leaped up the mountain path to a small, sheltered plateau where Darmel was busily gathering the last of the _veyat._ "There is enough here for many days' bread, young Estel," he said. "Will you help me pick the grain?"

"Oh, yes," said Estel bravely, climbing down from Niboi's shoulders. "Show me, please." He inspected closely the golden sheaves already piled.

Darmel pulled up one stalk and pointed out its parts to the child. "…and this is the grain that you saw in the tall jar in Vaneta's kitchen." He pulled one off the stem and handed it to Estel. "Though it isn't quite ready to go in the jar, yet. We must take each one from this fat finger and spread them out like this, on the clean floor so that no one grain lies atop another… then we offer it to our sister Arien, for three days, until it is dry enough to go into the tall jar."

"Now I know the story of _veyat,_ all of it," said the boy with great satisfaction. "Or… is there more?" he turned back to Niboi.

"Only this, little one," said the elf. "That some of the grains we do not use to make bread. Some we pick out, the best and shiniest, and save them for…"

"For the spring-time!" shouted Estel in delight. "Yes, we put each one in a little hole in the soil, which we have made ready… Yes! I have done this with Momo, and with my granna Ivorwen… before…" he trailed off again. "I must not say," he muttered.

"Estel, little friend," Ranon knelt at his side and took his hand, "fear not for your words sprouted in joy. Beyond us, they will not go. And we will not ask." She leaped up suddenly, twirling merrily. "We are your friends, Estel, and friends seek always to share happy moments. This, my dear," she slowed her whirling and whispered close, "is the wisdom of Arda: this moment, now. We are, now. We love, now. Happy, we sing and dance as we work for our good food. Happy, now."

"Happy, yes," smiled the little boy radiantly, "I am happy. I am Estel."

"And Darmel has picked almost all the _veyat _himself," said Niboi. "Let us start from this side, and meet him in the sea of golden grain."

The elves and the boy worked their way into the clusters of brittle blond grass, taking between their fingers carefully the stalks top-heavy with grain. Each piled a sheaf, two large and one small.

"Look at this," said Estel suddenly, pointing to a smallish plant entwined among the stalks of _veyat._ "What is this?"

"Ah," said Darmel, "this is _lottla_, young Estel. Have you not eaten _lottla_ in a good soup, or mixed with _veyat_ and egg?"

"I know not," said the child unsurely, "but I will have some, please."

"This boy can eat a house," muttered Niboi. "He will have to become a hunter as well as a harvester."

"Let me tell you, little one, that _veyat _ and _lottla_ are like Niboi and me, almost like brothers, always friends. We plant _veyat_ in the early spring, and the young stalks begin to shoot up; then we plant a seed of _lottla _beside each one, and then they, too, start sprouting up. And they cling to the _veyat_ stalk with their tiny hands, see?" the elf pointed to a minuscule pronged tendril, "and wind around. Then they protect one another and make strength for each other, and they grow together."

"But there is only one here," said the child in wonder.

"We had gathered our _lottla_ in days past. This one was overlooked." Darmel stood up and packed the sheaves into a large sack. "There. We will come later with Imila, and bring it down to the drying-ground."

"Who is Imila, Darmel?" asked Estel with sudden interest.

"Imila is our helper-horse, who carries great loads without effort and is sure-footed like a deer. She will bring this sack laughing all the way."

"Imila is a laughing horse?" asked Estel in happy amazement.

"You will see, young one, when we take her from the pasture."

"Rogarin is in the pasture! Maybe with Imila. Maybe he is laughing." Estel considered this, seriously. "That is good. He is very sad."

"We will go now to see the horses, Estel, if you wish," said Niboi. "You will show us Rogarin, and we will show you Imila."

"Yes!" cried Estel, happily. "Rogarin is wonderful."

"Look, Estel," said Ranon. "This little plant full of blue star-bells… We will ask for it to come with us." She bowed her head and closed her eyes, holding the tip of a branch between her index finger and thumb. Estel did the same with another small bough, and in his mind asked the plant to come with them.

Ranon opened her eyes and took the plant firmly by the base of its stem. She worked it one way and the other, and finally drew it gently from the ground. She kissed it and lowered it to Estel, who did so as well. As they walked, she broke off the roots, shook them and stored them in her pocket. The blue star-bell plant she gave to Estel.

"For Rogarin," she said. "This is a special treat. He will love it so, I am sure."

"Thank you, Ranon," said Estel. "I will give him now, and I will say you show me. He will say thank you in his horse-talk."

The four tripped down the mountain path in song and laughter. They made animal sounds in a variety of emotions, sounds from the elements of Nature, and whistled. The elves were amazed by the child's proficiency, twittering away like a bird on an early-morning branch. And when they crossed the bridge and neared the stables, the boy's whistle grew more shrill and pointed, and then a great whinny rose in answer.

"Rogarin," he said happily, and tugged at his new friends' hands. "Let us run."


	20. The Weft and the Warp

Chapter Twenty: _The Weft and the Warp_

Once again the oval tub had been called into service. Gilraen floated peacefully, lost between the spicy waters and Milia's bewitching song. Lynael had a foot and Larat a hand, rubbing and squeezing, pressing at moments upon special points. The girl sighed softly, and a tear slipped from beneath her eyelids. Larat pointed it out, briefly, and shifted her rubbing to the forearm.

"Mother of all Light," sang Milia in Sindarin staves, "we revel in thy gifts…"

Lynael released the foot and came around to Gilraen's ear. "My daughter," she whispered, "is true sleep upon you?"

After a moment, the girl replied faintly, "Not deep, not far… here, in this pass of ecstasy…"

"Then you must return, and rise from the healing waters." Each thumb and finger and toe had been rubbed and pressed, arms kneaded and calves, long slender thighs. Now shoulders, as she sat forward the final moments of her bath and rubbing. Her spine emerging from her bent back, Lynael rubbing and pounding softly along both sides of the vital cordon. "Fragile, yet strong, as the twins have sentenced," she mused, as her hands went into the water in search of Gilraen's tailbone.

"From here," she said at the girl's small jump, "from here must come your strength, from here you must pull up from the sweet face of Arda. Rise, daughter." The three elven women guided her out of the bath and into the sunlight still pouring through the balcony doors. "Open the tiny doors of your skin," whispered Lynael. "Summon the warmth and light of our Lady Arien, to enter you through each opening of your body, from the smallest to the largest, and even the hidden ones."

Gilraen bent obediently, turning and twisting her limbs so that every inch of her skin was bathed in the light and warmed in the great fire of the Sun. "This must be done every day, my daughter. While the warmth of autumn is with us, you will take it in, to keep you through the winter months."

"And you must stretch your body and put forth effort, so that strength returns," said Larat seriously. "You are a girl, barely a woman, and your body is still far from its turning-point. Horse, and forest, and water and mountain, these await you."

"I desire this," Gilraen rose from an inverted position, flushed and gasping. "My body wants to be well."

Milia observed from the side. "Your heart is of your body, and it, too, is striving to return to life. Your mind, perhaps, is the one that is straggling behind."

Gilraen knelt before her, seeking the eyes always smiling. "It is difficult to master the mind, dearest lady. Much easier to command the body, even to wondrous steps and stances." She lowered her voice and drew nearer. "Nienna has come to my dream time, again. She has spoken of these things to me."

"Do you keep in your mind her whisperings?" Milia stroked the girl's cheek softly.

"I do," Gilraen answered. "She has enlightened me on the hidden nature of sorrow."

"It is of the greatest importance that you register these precious words, my love," said Larat. "They must find their place among the wise letters of Imladris."

"So has my uncle requested, ladies," Gilraen rose and went to a chest inside the room. She knelt and opened it, and took from within a large parcel wrapped in a fine white cloth. She removed the coverings and presented the sisters with the wonderful box of many fine woods, the gift of Elrond. Cooing in admiration, they touched and explored each block and bottle, each fine sheet of paper.

The brushes and stylus drew Lynael especially. "I have seen none finer, in years uncounted. The Master desires of you a work of supreme importance and beauty."

"The dream visits of Nienna are as good a place to begin as any," mused Milia. "From there you may wander, and each day deliver words from your mind to the good sheets of parchment. Then you may rest from them, and release them… these memories, large and small, of joy and of sorrow… and live only this, now, your moment… Thus will you arrive at healing and peace."

"We bear another gift, my daughter," Larat had withdrawn for a moment and now returned with a soft bundle cradled in her arms. "From the weavers, to welcome you to Imladris and to the hearts of all." She shook out the bundle and spread out a gown of autumn beauty.

"They have taken into the weft and warp countless colors from the light and shade of these golden days before winter-sleep," said Lynael, scrutinizing the fabric. "Regard the ascending threads of the warp, as tree-trunks and slanting shadows, and here the river rising. Across, the weft carries both the final reds and golds, still the greens, and the soft wind that moves all. It is exquisite."

Gilraen was speechless. "Never have I seen such a dress, my ladies," she whispered, approaching shyly. "I know not even how to name this color… these many, many colors, that are no one and yet all."

"Yet," said Milia happily, "the covering is not of greater beauty than that which must now go hidden." She ran her hand along Gilraen's side and down her hip, over the curve of her buttock, and they all four laughed.

"I shall attire myself in this autumn dream at once," said the girl. "Please assist me, my dear ladies." The dress was practical and versatile, for all the elegance of its fabric. There were, however, basic ties and laces unknown to her that, once secured, would deliver the wearer to great comfort.

"Here, if we desire freshness," explained Lynael, pulling gently on a lace from within the sleeve to join with its mate on the shoulder, one of several adorning ribbons.

"This is for warmth, otherwise an overskirt," said Larat, lifting a large half-moon of silky fabric to cover Gilraen's back and shoulders. "The cloth is so fine that you will not feel the weight of both pieces more than you would any skirt."

"Both faces of this wonderful cloth are equally perfect," said Gilraen, observing front and back of the piece now serving as a shawl. "And visions fleet by from one direction and another, as I incline it in the light."

The three sisters sat back, delighted as much as the girl herself. Truly the weavers had outdone themselves, and the gown was a rare beauty. How not to raise spirits from drooping, both the jewel itself and the love so patently expressed in its making.

"Is there something else?" the girl asked suddenly. "Something more, deeper, woven into these fine threads? My mother once whispered of such things to me, long ago."

"I believe there is nothing deeper than love, my dear," said Milia. "No charm of greater power, no incantation supreme above it. It is for love that Eru created the vision of Arda, and the Valar the making of it. It is for love that we are here, and you and your wonderful boy."

"So I must step out and dance along the paths of Imladris clothed in a gown whose every thread has been laid in love for me." Gilraen smiled, but the sisters saw clearly that something was shaken deep within her.

"May I say," said Lynael gently, "that the threads of the weft, ascending, mean to lift and carry your spirits, your thoughts, high above: to the treetops, to the mountains, to the clouds and even to Varda's stars."

"And the cross-threads of the warp," added Larat with sly humor, "seek to stretch out your tendrils all about you, to revive your vows to every living creature, however tiny or hidden, even to rocks and sands and crystals."

"Goodness!" said Gilraen. "Indeed, this is a garment of great reckoning."

"It is," said Larat. "Armor, of a sort. To protect and sustain you, and to give you joy. Also to enhance your loveliness, for well you know that we Eldar give ever the greatest importance to this rare gift: to beauty such as yours, my dear daughter."

"The garden, my dear ladies," the girl beseeched her caretakers. "I would have the breeze from the mountain and the song of the river." The healers perceived still the anxiety riddling her, and conceded at once. The four trotted down the hall to the side door and let themselves into the garden. The sisters allowed Gilraen to take the lead, as she seemed to have a site in mind; and this sprout of decision was in itself an act of healing.

They came at last to the terrace of the council, and Gilraen stood beneath the rowan tree of the red berries. She reached her finger out to touch a large bunch hanging from the lowest branch, and said, "This is heart of red. The very sight of them sends joy coursing through my entire being."

The healers guessed at once that the girl had much on her mind, and required no conversation. Each withdrew into her favorite nook and sat in contemplation of the day, Milia not refraining from the fine strings of her little harp.

Gilraen climbed onto the balustrade and settled comfortably, her eyes roaming the valley from the high tumbling waters to the secret closing way that was the entrance to Rivendell. Many years, in her humble mortal account, had passed since the joyful summers spent here as a small girl. "And why we came," she mused, "why my dear father and mother brought me… I simply have no idea. I never asked. Such was the bliss and wonder, all else mattered naught."

The noontide turned to the westering Sun, and the girl went now to laughter, now to tears, striving to open her thoughts and her memories. "We must do this. I must find our way. What else is there, what else do we have? Days here are not as ours… I must keep track of them in our own count. No rest for me, no time to drift away in memories." She sighed, the great laugh of Arathorn so plain in her ear, his hands on her shoulders, on her waist… A tear slipped down her cheek and splashed on the rock wall. "I will be allowed to speak of him, of us… when how many snows have passed?" She shifted nervously. "My boy is a man-child, not to forget. They must all keep this in mind. Time to them is nothing, a flutter, a sigh. And then it passes, it all passes.

"And I will pass, also. Good, yes, but there is much I must do first. For this great work I must eat, for this I must sleep and heal and rise above sorrow." She wrinkled her nose and considered. "Rise, yes, but not forget the seed of compassion that sorrow allows to grow in us." She traced the amblings of an ant on the rock wall. "Long will I labor, like you, little one, and only then I will rest. Days pass, and many around us are solving each small question as it rises… I must not sit back and let others do all: I must keep the course under the stars of Varda. When Aragorn is to learn of the Atani, he must come to me in faith and confidence. He must see me strong now, these years, while he is still small… and as he waxes, I may wane, and finally rest."

Gilraen stretched her arms above her head and arched her back, seeming to form a living funnel through which the golden rain of heaven could flow. The sisters sat up and observed attentively. Milia conveyed to the harp-strings her view of Gilraen's action, and in response the girl lifted her sweet voice to the airs above.

"Oh, my fingers will give beauty to all things," she sang, "shaping and plucking and tracing and placing, all things…" She smiled at the sisters, and chanted on, "I know each gift bestowed upon me… I have been blessed, so blessed… Now I call on them, my gifts, to be, to make... to inspire eye, ear, touch… even smell and flavor-taste…"

Larat and Lynael raised their arms entwining and lifted their feet in dancing steps to the music of harp and song. Arien's warmth moved on, and slowly all were still. The four finally came together in the center of the terrace and embraced in a huddle, their heads touching, and Larat said, "A marvelous sweet song, yours, my daughter."

"There is more, but this as yet Mother had no time to show me… Mother…" Gilraen exhaled softly.

"Of course, my little Ivorwen…" Lynael shook herself joyfully, the little band coming apart and each woman loosening her joints and muscles in blissful relaxation as they took the path up to the gallery and the great doorway.

"Aragorn is learning much, every minute of every day," Lynael said seriously as they reached the corridor at last, "things entirely new and wondrous. You must have him tell you all, so that in recalling he will fix in his mind these singular bits and pieces of his new life."

"Also," added Larat, "you will be in his confidence, seeing what he sees, knowing what he learns, sharing the new visions on which he will build his notions of Arda and Ea."

"Indeed, my dear ladies. I regard and heed your words of depth, and your wisdom." Gilraen smiled to herself. The sisters. They love me so, and I them. And Mother will come!


	21. NightStories in the Firelight

Chapter Twenty-one: _Night-Stories in the Firelight_

The great arched doors to the feasting-hall were thrown open, a stream of laughing elves coming forth. Behind, slowly and more composed, Elrond and Gilraen bent their heads together to share a quiet word. Estel was in the midst of the boisterous elves, including the healers, Elladan and Elrohir, and several more from the household. Glorfindel and Erestor tried in vain to keep aloof, succumbing finally to grasping hands and dancing feet. They had all just finished a luscious meal, with plenty of wine and bubbles, the mood running straight towards song and play.

"To the Hall, quickly!" Erestor leaped through the archway, closely pursued by Ranon and Elladan, tussling in play for the choice seat before the great fire in the hearth. Estel landed on his little armchair, then dragged it to a more favorable spot. His, of course, was the advantage of smallness: his central position in the first row was permanently assured.

Glorfindel pulled up a deep cushioned chair behind the boy, and turned to Gilraen at the threshold, still arm-in-arm with Elrond. "For you, my lady. A suitable seat for your enjoyment of this night's revels."

"Revels?" asked Gilraen. "What happy occasion have we this evening?"

"There is none to-night fixed in our year-keeping, my lady," ventured Ranon with a twinkle in her eye, "but we are all in joy since the coming of the little one among us." She reached her hands out to Estel and exchanged a swift finger-game with him. The child screeched with elation upon winning the round.

"Buzz, buzz, buzz, my buzzy-bee came home!" sang Estel as the game ended. "Momo, Momo, look at my buzzy-bee!" Gilraen leaned over the tiny armchair to follow the gyrations of the finger-bee, laughing despite herself. Ranon collapsed in delighted defeat, her supporters fanning and reviving her.

Pressed by the company to share his day's doings, Estel recounted his trip up the mountain, his encounter with each bee, and finally explained the entire process from flowering _veyat_ to the tasty cakes of Vaneta. The happy cook rewarded him with a morsel from her pocket, and all present applauded his productive efforts.

"Is there a song, at last, Milia?" asked Elrond as the laughter died down. The lady of the harp rose and bowed, then took her seat between the company and the fire. Her fingers strummed and plucked, perfect notes blending in the air to cover all with deep grace and beatitude.

"Flower of a single day, most lovely among them all," she sang, "flashing silver fish through falling waters, sparkle of a jewel in the sun, burst of flame as fire awakens…" The melody rose again, calling forth a sigh from more than one breast. Glorfindel shifted in his seat and gazed at Gilraen.

"We thank thee O Tintalle, for this time of sleep and waking, for this child and her child of her own, for this joyful task onto us delivered, for the day of just reckoning soon to come…"

Larat whispered in Lynael's ear, "Soon, in our count. There is still time to make him what he must become, but none to lose." Lynael squeezed her hand in answer.

It was hard to say if Milia's poesy was itself grasped by little Estel, but there was no doubt that the song, more than just music or verses, had found its way into the child's depths. He was strangely still and quiet, dipping his head slightly from side to side, his eyes riveted on the harpist and her vibrating strings. His lips seemed to puff out silent notes, following the sounds of plucking and strumming, until the final gliding chords. As the final quivering echo faded away, Milia lowered her harp and gestured lovingly towards the mortal girl.

"A rare song, dear Milia," said Erestor. "But so very beautiful. Thank you."

"Indeed," said Gilraen. "Take, please, my gratitude for this and for the countless acts of love that fill my days and nights, yours and your sister-healers'. And all of you," she said, turning to the each of the company, "each in her or his way, all of you are here with me in this great work, and although I cannot, and will not, deny the sorrow that will live in my heart forever, for my… loss… I wish to say to you all that I am happy, so very happy, that we are here with you and doing in this way that which must be done. Uncle," she turned to Elrond, "am I making any sense?"

"Always, my daughter," he said, smiling but earnest. "It is not given to you to speak nonsensically."

"I feel in these days that I should speak not at all, what with so many things that must not be said," she sighed, slipping again into sadness.

Elrond took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. "Your silence is not to be absolute, or life-long. Record everything in your own wise poesy, and he will know then all that has passed."

She smiled a bit and said, "Yes, that suits me now. I have little use for speech…"

"Ah, perhaps," said Milia cheerily, "but certainly you have great use for song!"

"Yes, yes!" all around them clamored, "a song, a song, sweet lady!"

She blushed and hid her face in her hands for a moment, then faced her strange socii, her partners from another world pledged to sail her ship through all storms. "I will," she said. "I have a song." She dropped her gaze to her hands resting on her lap, then straightened up and lifted her arms in a coming embrace.

_There is life, around us there is life…_

_Even my sadness awakens each day _

_and must smile… And my joy! _

_Tears wait, each day, for quiet moments… _

_Some days pass without one… _

_And more such will come, I know:_

_days of wild running in springtime meadows, _

_of hot bodies soothing in shaded pools… _

_Will love ever awaken again?_

Gilraen's song would surely have been applauded, though it was heavy with mystery for the elves unfamiliar with mortal sorrow. However, it was Estel that suddenly jumped up from his chair, wild-eyed, and cried out, "Dada! Where is Dada?"

Not a one among them moved a finger. The child's ringing question was a blow with no answer: there was none made ready for such occasion, rather it had been hoped to avoid, altogether, the hurtful point. They saw now that this hardly could have been.

Gilraen knelt before him and took him in her arms. He was stiff-armed and did not return the embrace. "Momo," he said, "where is Dada?"

"Part of him sleeps in the mountain, where we said to him farewell… do you not recall this, my son?" Gilraen called up from within her, strength yet unknown.

"Part of him, Momo…?" the child shook his head in bewilderment.

"And part of him is here with you and with me," she whispered. "We cannot see him, but if we close our eyes we can feel him near. I believe he is with us, now and always. We make a home for him in our thoughts."

The child slowly relaxed and finally raised his eyes to his mother's, listening closely to the words of her own comforting. The elves sang softly the hymn to Elbereth, always soothing and hopeful, and the hour passed. Smiles returned, a round of sweet brew was served and _shacorot_ for Estel, washing away his final bits of sadness.

Glorfindel finally stood and came forward to the center of the space before the fire. He tapped a silver cup with his spoon, and announced a rare event. "Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Master Elrond, Lord of Imladris, will now recall for us a wonderful story, a story matchless, beyond compare, a story of the beginning…"

The brothers appeared as if from nowhere, although they had been for hours among the company. Estel sat up and blinked, his interest suddenly taken. The twins were each wrapped in a gray elven-cloak, identical as always, but one, Elladan, had on his forehead a jewel of bright yellow light, and the other, Elrohir, had one of clear white luminescence. They crouched and swerved each to one side, their gaze travelling over either half of the company, then circled each other almost imperceptibly to finish the round of eye contact with their listeners: now, a captive audience.

"We bring for you this fine evening," began Elladan, "a story of great delight. Have you, Master Estel, heard tell of Two Trees… the Two Trees of Valinor?" The child, wide-eyed, shook his head.

"In the land of Aman, Master Estel, all was made in beauty under the light of the glowing stars." Elrohir seemed to reach a handful of stars and spread them before the boy's rapt attention. "Who made all the things of beauty? Great Makers, tall as an oak-tree, strong as a mountain... the Valar, beloved of Eru Iluvatar... made their homes as mansions, huge halls..."

"They had to be!" Elladan rose suddenly, seeming to float behind and above his brother, "for the Valar as tall as an oak-tree must needs have high ceilings and wide, wide doorways; and their stables must so be huge for their horses as big as a house! As big as a house!"

"As big as this house?" crowed Estel in lively amazement amid the gaiety.

"Maybe not quite," whispered Elrohir, "but surely as big as this great hall, our Hall of Fire..." His pointing finger led Estel's eye to view the outline of the giant horses.

"And the gardens! The gardens!" Elladan broke in, his hands hiding and revealing at instants, "flowers uncounted, every shade of every color hot and cold, every form of leaf in unnumbered greens and grays... Paths winding, some, and others straight and broad, hiding a shady bower, showing a living tapestry... and fountains, and pools, and streams cool and tuneful... each stepping-stone made with loving precision of shape, color, texture... The gardens, Master Estel, the gardens of the Land of Aman!"

The gardens lingered in the air for a moment, as all held their breath. Elrohir lifted his hands as in prayer. "He who raised up the mountains, built the great halls and mansions. She who caused to grow the tiniest moss and the greatest tree, laid the gardens and called them forth from the good, living earth floor of Aman."

"And all the varied shapes and forms of _kelvar_, beloved of Kementari but also of Oromë the Hunter, the sure-footed, the swift-winged, the songsters, the prancers, the fierce and the fearful... in the water, through the air, over the fields... ah!, the fields..." Elladan seemed to have the beasts and birds hidden in his fingers.

"Yes, the fields, the endless fields: food-plants hardy and self-grown, revelled together in a great order of their very own..." Elrohir drew the fields in the air, the company laughing and clapping. Suddenly he stopped and said in a loud whisper, "And in all Valinor, as the Valar called their home, there was nothing blemished, nothing rotten, nothing smelly..." his voice and gesture rising, "nothing harsh, not a single note of sound or color clashing with another... Truly, the Music devised by Eru Iluvatar was closely expressed in the harmony of Valinor."

The brothers seemed to blend once more into a single player, as each voiced his part, back and forth. "So it was pretty! Was it pretty? Who can say? There are none of us here who have seen Aman the Blessed... only stories have we heard, stories... One day, Master Estel, you will sit at the feet of one who may tell you true of the beauty of Valinor... for she saw it with her eyes, her own eyes, and she touched with her hand the radiance of the trees, the Two Trees, the Two Trees of Valinor!"

"Me?" asked Estel in wonder. "I will sit at the feet of... who?"

"The momo of our momo, Estel, the Lady of the Golden Wood, Queen of the Noldor in Middle Earth... the Lady Galadriel, of the noble house of Finwë." A pin would have dropped with a loud ring, within the reverent silence that greeted the beloved name.

"But until then...!" The twins leaped apart and became again the pair of storytellers, bandying to and fro sounds and images flashing between the enraptured group and the fire of many-colored flames. "The White Lady of the Golden Wood will speak of that which she saw in countless years gone past, but until that day you must not, our very dear Estel, go without this wondrous story." Elladan winked broadly at his little cousin.

"Indeed," Elrohir picked up the phrase, "after this night you will have them in your mind, as do we all... if you will..."

"Yes, yes!" cried the boy, "tell me, please!"

"Our gentle Lady Kementari, the Valier Yavanna..."

"...when all had been made ready in the divine city of Valmar..."

"...ascended the grassy green mound of Ezellohar, beyond the gates..."

"...the western gates..."

"...and before the thrones of the Powers in the Ring of Doom..."

"Máhanaxar!"

"Yavanna raised up a song, a song of power, and sat on the green mound to sing it through, to the end..."

"Nienna, the Lady of Dreams and Sorrow, brought for Yavanna refreshment, and sat with her for a long hour, watering the earth with her holy tears."

"The Valar came, one and all, and sat on their thrones to hear the song of Yavanna."

"In silence, they sat... for an age..."

"And then..."

"...from the ground before her..."

"...a silver sliver parted slowly the lumps of soil..." this, Elrohir with his white jewel.

"...a golden thread curled up after..." Elladan, painting in the air with his finger.

"One here! One there!" the twins, in unison, pointed each to a spot on one and on the other sides of the mound. Amazing, they made plant-sounds and then tree-sounds, as each described in turn the unfolding of the saplings and their first sparkling drops of light. "Yavanna raiiiiii...sed them up, out of the Earth and into the Air, and as she sang to them they grew, and they stretched their branches as we stretch our arms..."

And they stretched, the twins, and they stretched and stretched so, that their listeners began also to stretch their arms and legs. Estel, laughing happily, stretched his entire, lithe little body in an arc between his own chair and the one next to him, where Milia sat twisting her shoulders back and forth, in an ecstasy of well-being.

"And their branches became great, and from them sprang branches smaller and smaller..." Arms and forearms and hands and fingers recalled the image, crossing and blending in the firelight.

"...and from these budded forth leaves, green leaves..."

"...and flowers... Ah! Wait!" The twins rooted to a stop, holding every elf and mortal in the stillness of the instant.

"The leaves," said Elladan, "first the leaves."

"The one tree had long, pointed leaves of darkest green, above, and below of shining silver," Elrohir produced a seeming leaf before all eyes present, then snatched it away as Elladan came forward with one of his own.

"The other had round, curling leaves of tender green all edged in glittering gold," he passed the leaf quickly, then held it up for the briefest moment. Estel strained to see, but even before the child was out of his chair the twins had once more closed in on themselves, re-emerging then with even more wondrous feats of finger-magic.

"Regard the flowers of Telperion! ...for that was his name, this great white tree of silver and green..." There seemed to tumble from Elrohir's hands a spray of countless little white flowers, each dripping a thread of silver light which disappeared into the shadowy floor. "From each single blossom, drop by drop, there came to be pools of shining silver light, gathered also in huge vats, like wells of water and light..."

"But the fiery clusters of yellow blossoms from the branches of Laurelin, the golden sister-tree, flowed over a bright rain of light," Elladan appeared from behind his brother with horn-shaped gatherings of aurean blooms bursting with golden radiance warm and glowing, seeming to emerge from his very flesh, as if he were, indeed, an elven rendering of that most beloved and lamented of trees.

Estel hung open his mouth hugely, his eyes popping so very wide, his little hands grasping the air before him. "Do you see the flowers?" his mother whispered to him. The child nodded absently, his attention riveted on the twins' subtle and magical movements.

Finally they stood still, one beside the other, and seemed to become, at last, Telperion and Laurelin themselves. A gentle glow surrounded them, silvery over Elrohir and golden on Elladan, as the two sang ever so softly in the High-Elven tongue a song of warm afternoons in the shade and the light of the Two Trees. "Telperion came first to full growth and flower, and his silver white light spread over the land and into each tiny nook and corner," Elrohir sang, now in the Sindarin of his birth, now in the Westron of his mortal cousins. "The count of six hours he glowed in joy and vigor, and in the seventh hour began to sink into himself..."

"But there was no sorrow or fear in Valinor for his fading!" cried Elladan, "for in that seventh hour of Telperion began the blossoming of Laurelin, slowly unfolding her living golden fire, until the sleep of her white brother went unnoticed in the glory of her yellow flame... again, six hours of radiance and warmth undreamed of..."

"And so went they, each from light to darkness in the count of six and six hours," said Elrohir, "and both times were beloved: the white and the golden." The brothers un-became the trees and gazed, rather, at where their unearthly light seemed to settle, called forth from memory of time before time by the skill of their enactment, but more so by the linking of their spirit to the bounty of the divinity.

"Both one light and the other were joy and pleasure, but it was in each seventh hour that the greatest love was fulfilled," Elladan's laughing face lifted the enraptured mind's-eye of his listeners, "and the air itself would be tinted by one fading light and one that was waxing, mingled and yet each still pure in its growing or shrinking threads..."

"Until one," Elrohir came forward with his whisper, "gave way totally to the other, and took his rest or her leisure..."

"And in this hour, each seventh hour, the most precious words were spoken, the most tender caresses given, the sweetest fruits shared among friends and lovers..."

There was finally silence, and all sat stricken save Estel, who verily seemed to bloom with the glory of his new great friends, the holy trees of the Blessed Realm. He flew finally from his seat and spun around the great hall, reliving instants of the story in his own pure and natural way. He told himself and answered himself and laughed merrily, until exhaustion took him finally in one great sweep and he climbed onto his favourite divan in time to collapse into oblivion.

Only then did the company stir. The twins each removed the jewel from his forehead and sighed, while some whispered, and others stroked arms and heads lovingly. The hour advanced, and Gilraen crawled onto the divan with Estel, covered them both with her cloak and joined her son in the sweet sleep of the guiltless.

The elves remained at the fire, gazing, attempting to read into the glowing shapes and shadows. Elrond filled two cups from a flask and brought them to his sons. "You have taken us totally, master storytellers, to a time and place we none of us have trod. Yet we had, in tales and song, in the deep memory of our race and bloodline: but never as you have taken us this night. Long has it been since I wept for the Trees and joined my hand to the battle against their slayer... Now, at this time, my vows are as they have ever been, and twice-renewed.

"Each of us here, even to little Estel, has been struck and wounded by the arms of the very same evil that destroyed the Trees... and his foul offspring. We will never utter his name in this place, and we will never forget that these wars we fight today are but the present chapter of a long struggle. It is true that the designer has himself been chained and cast into the void, for a time... until the Dagor Dagorath, the final battle to end all battles... if such can be...

"But his venom has, through the ages, seeped into the earth and the water. Only the love of Yavanna and Ulmo have kept it at bay, tainting only parcels and then only for a time. There will come a day -though we be not here to witness- when even the wretched land itself where our enemy has raised his evil towers, will be cleansed of his corrupted workings. This I foresee..."

"Can it be, Master?" asked Vaneta sadly, "Can that sad land be brought back?"

"I believe so in my heart," answered Elrond, taking her hand. "Once the unclean fire is gone, the ashes settle into dust which mingles with fair specks riding in on friendly winds... If the way is clear, and not a one hampers her loving scheme, the workings set by Our Lady will recover the soil and lift up the _olvar_, with the winds and rains of Manwë and Ulmo. The Valar are always with us, and with all the troubled mortal lands of Arda."

"I, too, believe so, Master," Vaneta held Elrond's hand to her breast, "but as you say... _not a one hampers..._ How not to encumber the wise workings of Arda the earth?"

There was true anguish in her eyes, and the elf-lord sent his thoughts back, far back, to the Dagorlad and the seven-year siege of the enemy's fortress. She had been there for a time, he remembered, serving her king Gil-galad and her brothers. Vaneta, a truly resourceful woman, had countless times enhanced their lot. When her brothers fell, at Gil-galad's side, he had sent her back to Imladris to heal her sorrow and her wasted body.

"Even in this, we must prepare the soul and mind of Estel," he whispered to her. "We will one day leave Middle-earth, and go over water to the Blessed Realm. We the Eldar will forego at last our task, somewhat in sadness for not delivering better, and the Atani will rule the land... as they do so now in many places... And I believe that Estel will rise to such heights that he may change and govern the doings of men."

Vaneta looked in surprise at Elrond, then at the sleeping child and mother. "This darling boy?" she wondered. "How so, Master?"

"He is Dúnadan, Vaneta," said Elrond slowly. "He will rise to rule. His brief years among us must empower him for this task, for the leading of free peoples into better lives, into peace and fulfilment."

"Elbereth," the elf-woman whispered, "every word, every step... not a leaf will fall that will not account in the sum of this man-child, of this little king."

"You speak true, my friend," Elrond sat back and gazed at the dying fire, "the stature of Estel will be the true test and final statement of Imladris. We must each and all do our part."

She patted his arm, cheerful once more. "I am happy, my lord. This child fills me with love and song, and now with purpose... as your deep words have led me to see. I thank you, and beg you to come on the morrow to break your fast with us. It may be you will partake of Estel-cakes..."

"I will, Vaneta, thank you. I believe we all will gather round your wonderful table, come the morrow."

The elves slipped away, some, others sank deep into chairs and divans to rest in their own way. The lingering hours of the night settled into silence, the long day was done.


	22. Estel's School in the Woods

Chapter Twenty-two: _Estel's School in the Woods_

Gilraen traced idly on the scroll of parchment before her, gyrating her stylus subtly to thicken the line, curve it and then thin it out into mere dots. She sighed and lifted her gaze to the balcony sunlight, considering an exchange of activities: put away papers, go out for a romp. On the one hand, she thought, there are fewer and fewer sunny days left in this autumn; on the other, I have a pact with these fine sheets and ink and colors. And a promise to my boy, though he knows nothing of it, as yet.

But perhaps there were enough engraved parchments stacked in the wooden box, laid therein carefully by her hand upon completing, each leaf covered with neat, small strokes of surprising clarity, interspersed with tiny bits of images grafted from her memory to the solid paper for the story in the telling. She looked in the box and blew a small kiss at the sheaf of parchments. They have seen enough of my tears flowing, she reflected, faithful confidants of this sorrow I may not show.

"But for the best!" she exclaimed aloud, shutting the box and rising from her low seat at the balcony threshold. Not for naught had her uncle, wisest of the wise, instructed her to restrain her sorrow before company, especially Estel, while endowing her with the great task of recording her history, their history, on paper... in words... drawings... full well knowing that in the task's required solitude she would weep freely as she worked, converting her pain to fine art. And true record.

Indeed, she thought as she closed her chamber door and sauntered down the hall to the garden door, there is much to be enjoyed in solitude. I had never, perhaps, found myself alone. Always Mother, and Father, and my darling brethren. Then, later, my love forever. Even when he was away, weeks at a time, his huge presence was as a solid body at my side, always. Never before have I been, as so I am now, undemanded and dispossessed of duties.

Well, not entirely, she amended. The sensitive work she had just set to rest in the fine box was fully her duty, hers and hers alone. If she did not carry it out, the entire story would fade and pass with her. Estel would be, in years to come, deprived of this testimonial and simply patch over the great abyss in his heart, where a loving father would have been.

Not that he will be bereft of the engendering essence of male, she added quickly to herself as she trod the path to the stables. Though not mortal, these elf-lords of Imladris are most assuredly male. "And there they be!" she said aloud, as she espied Elrond and his sons descending from the gallery with Estel leap-and-laughing all the way down to the bridge.

"Momo, Momo!" he cried as he spotted her climbing towards them. He bounded into her embrace and covered her face with little kisses. "We are off to the forest, Momo... Ada and Elladan and Elrohir and Estel! We will sleep in the forest, Momo!" He let himself down from her arms and took up his position between the twins. Suddenly, he looked back at her and asked, a bit worried, "Where are you going, Momo?"

Gilraen laughed at the little man's hint of encroachment on her freedom. "You are going to the forest with Ada and Elladan and Elrohir," she said, "and I am going for a long, lovely ride on Rogarin. Is that a good plan?" She tousled her son's hair and bowed gaily to the three, then turned and skipped across the bridge to the stable-path while the four watched her in silence.

"She will be fine, Estel," Elrohir patted the boy's shoulder. "You know Rogarin will carry her safely."

"It is most heartening to see her in good spirits, Ada," said Elladan, "and moving about on her own. Despite the sisters, perhaps," he added with a smile.

"They have watched over her night and day, mindful of her state," Elrond mused.

Elrohir shaded his eyes and gazed at the distant building. "There she goes, into the stable," he said. "We must fear nothing, Ada. She is a horsewoman from infancy, and there is no better mount for her than Rogarin."

"I do not fear," said Elrond, "but I wonder if she should ride alone..."

"There is one who never lets Gilraen out of his sight, Ada," whispered Elladan, with a wink to his brother. "Let us climb to the eagle rock and you will see."

The twins each took one of Estel's hands and swung him high, bringing shouts of laughter from the plucky child. They turned off the wide stone-paved path and followed a narrow track steeply up the valley, winding among great rocks. At a final turn, Elrond and Elladan leaped to the flat top of an outcropping boulder, and turned their view again to the stables far below.

"She emerges, leading her faithful mount," observed Elladan, "and now she will straddle him easily... yes... and off she goes." He turned to his father with a little grin. "Hold, a moment more."

Gilraen was not yet out of sight up the trail across the valley, when they saw another figure emerge from the stables, leading a large dapple-gray stallion. Elrond took note. "Glorfindel's gray Savoron... it is he, my son, if my eyes deceive me not."

"They never do," laughed Elladan, "and this is not the first time we spot our kinsman following the lady, especially when she walks alone."

"He has not made me party to the secrets of his heart," Elrond anticipated. "I know nothing of this matter."

"I believe there is nothing to know, Ada," said Elladan as they jumped back down to the track. "Ever the love of the Eldar for an Atani beauty, not easily kept hidden for the lady's brief lifetime." He sighed. "This I, too, have known, Ada."

"In this case, even more so. She will be a widow for her entire life, which will be far shorter than the extended years allotted to the Dúnedain from my brother Elros' line," Elrond reflected, "and Glorfindel bore great love for Arathorn. For that, also, he looks out for the lady. And this is good."

They caught up with Estel and Elrohir, stepping carefully along the trail. Before they could speak, the child held a warning finger to his lips. The two fell in with the game, which they knew was also a lesson. With Estel, everything was. They all proceeded in this silent manner until the forest closed in all around them. Elrohir made finger-signs to Estel, indicating that there was a clearing ahead where they could stop.

The tall elf stepped out into the wide space roofed by overhanging branches of ancient trees, and gestured for the others to follow. Although they were no longer playing the quiet game, each seemed loth to break into the silence, which, as they waited, became less silent and more like a patchwork of tiny forest sounds.

"We were practicing our silent forest-walk, Ada," whispered Estel.

"Yes, my boy. It went well," Elrond replied, also in a whisper. "But I believe we can speak freely now."

They hardly did, however. Each of the four drifted into the wealth of forest sounds. Elrond, standing still as a tree in the very center of the clearing, seemed to converse through his mind with old wood and young leaf alike. The child, as he was wont, one instant had his ear to the grassy floor and a moment later was crawling up a gnarled tree trunk. The twins took turns following Estel with a subtle eye, and otherwise set to devising riddles and questions to further lead the boy into their longtime woodcraft.

Elladan encouraged him to climb the trees. He made the child stretch and strain and utter no sound meanwhile, pull himself up unaided, then balance on high branches without a thought, seemingly, for the long drop to the forest floor. His hand barely brushed Estel's shoulder, but the child's feet did in fact step precisely where they had to and seemed to cling to the branch like a tree-frog's.

Their high spot set them in a green-and-gray mezzanine that seemed to go on forever into a forest sea above and below them. "See the little yellow bird, Estel," whispered the elf. The child nodded. "Follow with your eyes, his hops, his preening, his sudden flight... Perhaps his nest is nearby. Perhaps we can see it from here."

The pair watched, unmoving, for many minutes. Elladan observed with satisfaction that the boy could fix on a far object, that his eyes were sharp and his attention span strong. He wondered, also, that the fidgety child could stand so still.

A three-note whistle from below called them out of their surveillance. They came down from the tree as sailors from a great ship, happy to tread once more on solid earth. Elrohir took Estel's hand and led him to a spot where sun and shadow spoke by turns and drew fleeting images on all creatures alike. "This, too, one can sit and watch for many hours, and find good things, but we will not do so on this day." He smiled at the child's relieved expression. "There are, here, some bits of green for you to see. Come, sit with me for a moment."

There was a length of cloth extended on the ground, with a sampler of perhaps twenty different leaves, flower petals, bits of bark, fungi, and a little red bug trapped in a tiny inverted glass jar. Estel took his seat next to Elrohir and examined each item closely.

"This one I know," he said finally, "and this one, and this. This, maybe." He looked up at his cousin. "And the little red buzz-buzz?" he asked.

"You may take her back to her people. But first you must find where they are." The child looked around. "Here, in this clearing. Search carefully, and when you find them you may put the little red buzz-buzz back with them. Go." Elrohir barely suppressed a smile at the fierce determined look on Estel's face.

The boy shook the red bug carefully out of the glass onto his palm and examined it keenly, impressed with the brilliance of its scarlet shell. He further scrutinized the pointy little head and its long, thick feelers waving in question, then turned the bug on its back and verified that the belly and the six legs, like the head and feelers, were black. A bit annoyed, the bug tried to buzz its way into flight, but the quick child closed his hand loosely around it. He set himself to examine the ground all along the nearest edge of the clearing. The twins watched, while Elrond continued his silent sharing with the lively forest.

"To have found the flock, he will have seen all these others, I venture," Elrohir said to his twin. "Then he can tell us where each one was taken."

"It will take time, brother," Elladan gazed at the zenith, calculating hours of light still remaining, "and the boy is a fierce hunger."

"I believe he will finish his task first," said Elrohir. "He cannot eat with pleasure until all is done. The Lord Arathorn was so. I remember."

"Ha!" A little shout of triumph from across the clearing, Estel waving his arm and pointing to his closed fist. Elrohir signed him to proceed, and the happy child bent to release the red bug back with its kin, a mass of red bugs caked all along the southern face of a juicy young _saddus_. He skipped over to the twins, full of the story, but his teacher held up his hand.

"Not finished, yet," the elf said seriously. "Tell me: did you see the bush from where I took this leaf?" He pointed out a long, pointed leaf mottled with purple and yellow.

"I did, my cousin. It is here." He ran to the north side of the dell, and pointed to a small leafy bush. With the proper ceremony, Elrohir picked up the sample and took it to compare with the source. Elladan followed.

The twins agreed solemnly that the bush was, indeed, that from which the leaf had been taken. They nodded confirmation to Estel, hopping happily from foot to foot. A bright light flashed suddenly in his gray eyes, and he ran back to the sampler. He took up three more leaves, carefully, and another three flower petals, and waved the twins to come with him on the round of recognition.

With each successful finding, his actions grew more and more serious. All the bits were identified save one, a rough round nut. "Look up," whispered Elladan. The boy scrutinized the leafy ceiling branch by branch, until he espied a cluster of like nuts half-hidden among large, stiff leaves, and then many clusters more, here and there among the limbs of a great old tree.

"This!" he cried joyfully. "Now, all done." He sighed in deep satisfaction, then looked up suddenly. "I'm hungry," he said as if in discovery.

The twins exchanged a knowing look, and Elladan took a small packet from his belt. He opened it carefully and took out a brown strip of dried stuff. He sniffed it with relish, but Estel took it uncertainly and sank a thumbnail into one end. "Eat," said the elf, and proceeded with his own. Elrohir took a strip, and munched with gusto.

The boy looked from one to the other. The wonderful twins had never led him astray, he decided, so the strange brown thing must be good to eat. He was so hungry, at any rate, that it was surely worth a try. He took a big bite and chewed. And chewed and chewed and chewed, salivating copiously and marvelling at the vigour spreading quickly along his arms and legs.

"No fire in the daytime, Estel," Elladan confided to the child. "We eat our food as it is, and perhaps take something from the forest. Later, with Ada, we will look for a tasty treat." The boy suddenly remembered the elf-lord, and turned to seek him out.

It amazed him that Elrond was unmoving, in the same place since they first came into the clearing. He turned wide, questioning eyes on one and the other twin, silently signing _What_?

"He is speaking with the trees," whispered Elladan.

"But no words," insisted the child in the same low tones.

Elrohir touched his shoulder and turned his attention again to the sun-and-shadow pictures now on a huge tree trunk. "It begins there, for you," he said. "You will learn silent speech in stillness, though never so deep as Ada."

The child digested this in silence, and turned his attention to Elrond once more. Such was his intensity that the elf-lord seemed to come awake in answer to the call. He shook himself with great pleasure, loosening every joint and tendon, and rejoined the three with light step and wide, sunny smile.

"Old friends, always willing to share a moment," he said contentedly. "The year is coming to a fine end. We have time enough to gather all that we need, but none to waste. As always," he amended with a bit of song.

"Now, Ada?" asked Estel with a shadow of worry. "Must we hurry in the forest?"

"The trees speak of days to come, when Isil has gone around one more time." Elrond patted the boy's head playfully, then pecked with the middle finger. "I am a wood-carving drummer bird, searching for tiny feedlings in this tousled young tree!"

"A wild tree! A wild tree!" The child fell easily into the game. "Great winds whoosh blow, wild tree back and fro..." His little body bent side to side, arms outstretched, mouth and eyes wide. "Oooohhh! Oooohhh!" He grasped Elladan's hand and swerved nearly to the ground. The twins, too, were caught into the play, becoming one the wind and the other thunder and lightning. "And the drummer-bird, the drummer-bird!" cried Estel. "Where has he gone? The storm took him, perhaps..."

"Here, here is the clever bird," called Elrond perched on a low branch. "Safe from the storm, quick to find shelter. Have no sorrow for him, little wild tree!"

The four took their leave affectionately from the happy clearing and moved on into the thick of the forest. They took up again their forest-walk, as Estel called it, and moved through the brush with barely a sound. Many times they stopped and listened, hands outstretched, and then Elrohir would change their direction.

As the afternoon was waning, they came to a small hill among an evergreen copse. A section was dug up and uncovered, the topsoil removed and a solid gray-brown mass revealed. "Clay," whispered Elladan to the boy. "We will take a little, for you." He led the child to the quarry and they knelt before the exposed substance. "Ask them to let you have some."

"Ask who, Elladan?" the child whispered back.

"The guardians of the forest, Estel," said Elrond. "You cannot see them, but they see you. If you listen for a while, very still, perhaps you can hear their voices. But they are here, even if you do not perceive them as yet."

Elladan signed to the boy, _Soon_. He produced a light cloth pouch and opened wide its mouth, holding it out towards Estel. The child understood quickly, and carefully took one gray-brown chunk and then another, placing them in the bag. A little more, his mentor indicated, and he collected enough to fill the pouch and satisfy Elladan. The boy lifted it, feeling the weight, and then put it into his pack without a word.

The elves and the child turned their steps toward the setting sun, and with the last light arrived at a sheltered spot under an outcropping of moss-covered rock. "Here we will stay the night," said Elrohir, "and Estel will sleep; not at this moment!" he added quickly, as the child opened his mouth to protest. "We will prepare places of rest for each of us, and listen as it softly changes from day-forest to night-forest."

Elladan selected a spot for the child. In all his movements Estel sought to follow the twins, reworking his pack, preparing a hollow in the ground, lining therein his fine gray coverlet, and finally admiring a quickly-woven canopy that Elrohir made for him from the long, hanging branches of a slender tree. "Not cut, see? Just borrowed for this evening. Tomorrow, we un-weave and let the branches return to their good tree-life. We thank them, and go as friends."

"Thank you, Elrohir. Thank you, good tree." The boy smiled at the generous tree, and for several seconds was miraculously still. The twins watched their little kinsman as he absorbed the experience, his face shining with a dreamy expression. He finally reached out for a feathery branch-end and brushed it over his face, then kissed it softly and released it. He jumped then to his feet and asked keenly, "Will we play?"

"I have a gift for you, Estel," said Elladan, a bit mysteriously.

"A gift?" the child breathed.

The elf took an object from his pack, long as his hand could measure and thick as two thumbs, wrapped in a soft brown cloth. He handed it to the boy, and gestured for him to unravel it. Estel cleared a spot on the ground in front of him, lay the packet down, and then began to roll it open carefully while holding the outer end of the cloth to the ground. There finally appeared a small fettling knife, with a wooden handle carved in swirling shapes. The soft, pliant blade was shiny and its edge not sharp but rather narrow and without marks or cleaving.

"Knife..." Estel sat back in surprise. He looked up at Elladan and said again, "Knife."

"Not a common knife, Estel," the elf said seriously. "Your knife. For you. For you to learn and make things. Here, with this." He reached into the boy's pack and pulled out the pouch full of clay. Estel watched his every move as he took a handful of this new material and added to it a few drops of water and a small chip he learned much later was none other than animal fat.

Elladan kneaded the clay for several minutes, then broke it in two and gave one piece to Estel. The child followed all the elf's movements as best he could, quite well in fact, shaping the clay into basic forms and then squashing them back into a ball. He noticed than the mass was slowly becoming softer and smoother.

"Thus," said Elladan, "the clay is ready. So now we make a shape. What shape will you choose, little cousin?" He smiled at Estel darting his eyes in all directions.

"A tree," the boy said finally.

"A tree is good," the elf approved. "So follow. We will make one tree, you, and one, me. Observe: from the inside, out." The boy copied some of his teacher's movements, but at times was enthralled into his own in search of the secrets hidden in the clay. Each made a clay tree-trunk, and adhered to it thick clay branches and smaller ones. When Elladan saw that Estel had embarked on a myriad of tiny clay leaves, he took the fettling knife and laid it before the boy.

"Now we take our knife and make leaves for the tree, so." He attached a small lump of clay on a branch and applied the knife to it, pressing and shaping, and finally engraving little lines. He handed the tool back to Estel. "Work slowly, we have time enough. Make the handle fit into your palm, thus."

The boy was absorbed in his work for many minutes, and the twins noticed with great interest that he used either hand at random. Elrond joined them as the exercise came to an end, and admired with his sons the first work in clay from Estel's hands.

"Knife, Ada," the boy said happily, "for clay trees..."

"Now," said Elladan, "we will clean our tools and put them away, and our material, and Elrohir will make fire. A small one."

"A small one why?" asked the boy as he carefully cleaned his new knife and wrapped it again in its brown cloth.

"Because we need not a bigger one, you will see. This one will give us warmth enough with our gray cloaks over our shoulders. A small fire does not cause alarm among our brethren the _kelvar_ and the _olvar,_ as a great crackling one would. And," Elladan said with a flourish, "because we need a small heat to dry our clay trees! Look at mine, that Elrohir finished." He cupped his hands around the two trees and lifted them gently. His brother had already set up a flat stone on the edge of the fire, and there the clay trees stood to take their fire-bath and become strong, solid shapes.

Estel lay on the ground with his eye at their level and gazed at them against the dancing flames. "Telperion, and Laurelin," he whispered. His eyelids drooped a bit and he seemed to drift off. That, in any case, was what his three elders believed could be the reason for his laying so still.


	23. The Love of Elves and Mortals

_Chapter Twenty-t__hree: The Love of Elves and Mortals_

Glorfindel reined in his gray at the crest of a steep hill. He let his gaze travel over the valley below, seeking what was not hidden but nonetheless a treasure. He greeted the stream twinkling along the basin floor, and sharpened his scrutiny of its margins. "Ah, Rogarin," he said, his eye drawn by the restless stallion's bobbing head. "She shall be close by."

He knew this sheltered valley to be favoured by the three sisters, Rivendell's healers, so it was surely by their instruction that the Dúnedain Lady had made her way down into its red-and-gold ripples. Yet she was not in sight. "She must be nearby," he said again to himself, "for her wise mount does not indicate otherwise." He swung off his own horse and began his descent into the valley.

There was no path, but the downhill terrain was friendly enough. The elf-lord set his bearings towards the large tree in whose shadow Rogarin stood by his own choice, bridle off, untethered, munching as he watched his lady.

For there she was. Glorfindel stopped suddenly and took a step back. Gilraen stood on a large flat rock on the riverbank, bathing her pale rosy body in caresses falling from the burning zenith sun. Her arms raised, she turned slightly to one side and then the other, her head back, eyes shut, thick tresses unbound down her naked back.

The elf-lord could not help but watch. Thousands of years he had walked this Middle Earth, and still his heart took to its wings at the sight of such beauty as was this mortal girl by the autumn river. He did not wish to disrupt the curative ritual, however, so he made his way back to the tree where Rogarin and Savoron ignored each other cordially.

He smiled to himself as he settled into a hollow between two thick roots. He was hard put to remember that there had once been a time when he would have ravished the nymph without thinking twice. Or asking much of anything. It is a true blessing from the love and wisdom of Eru, he thought, that we elves have been given time enough to understand these things of passion and desire. It has taken me this long, to come to behold undisturbed the round, firm pink buttocks of- "Stop!" he cried aloud, pushing away the vision.

At the riverside, Gilraen stirred from her sun-communion. "Master Glorfindel, are you there?" she called unworriedly. "I am bathing. Will you wait?" She lowered her arms and took a seat on the rock, then jumped up to snatch a cool handful from the stream and freshen the hot spot. "Or will you join me?" she added, unthinking.

"I will wait," he said. "Take no mind of me." Join her, indeed. He would never hear the end of it. He shuddered, picturing the twins as they ran him into the ground amid silly jesting songs and verses. And yet she was lovely...

A bout of splashing and sing-song sputtering told of Gilraen's revelling in the cool and rocky stream. While Glorfindel closed in on himself and seemed to sleep, chin on his chest, the girl drew deeper and farther into the running water. She found a whirling pool, and with a whoop dived headlong into its depths. Even among the varicoloured rounded rocks on the river-bottom, the golden sun pierced through flesh and water alike as she spun her body lazily, blowing bubble by bubble the air hoarded in her lungs. Gilraen had no fear of water.

The elf-lord, however, seemed to keep count of the time elapsed in silence. Much too much for her little lungs, he thought, and stirred himself. Rogarin still showed no worry, but he was, after all, just a grazing horse and perhaps distracted. He turned his steps decisively to the riverside, where his worst fears seemed to materialize. She was nowhere to be seen.

His great shout caught itself in time, as she sprouted from the depths of the pool in midstream like a plump pink otter, blowing and laughing and gasping. She swam easily to the riverbank and climbed out onto her hot stone. Glorfindel was caught, and must sit with her... or what?

"I feared for your safety, my lady," he said, his gaze drifting back to the stream. "I should have remembered you are a fine swimmer, as are all the Dúnedain."

"As a child I swam in the dark waters of Evendim," she said. "Mother believed that our kind should never again perish by water, and showed us how to give our bodies in understanding to the cleansing tides of Ulmo. The lady Lynael sent me to this blessed stream, to bathe in its currents of life-energy." She smiled at his face turned away. "My own choice was to give myself to Arien, first. Only a bit, then the waters." She paused, and reached over to touch his hand. "I sense you are disturbed, Master."

"I am disturbed, my lady, by the bareness of your body. I have never seen you so."

"But you have!" she cried. "As a child, in the wonderful summer when Mother and Father brought me to visit Imladris! You know, Master Glorfindel, that always we share the waters in the bareness of our bodies. The elves do not?"

"I can hardly say. Perhaps some," he muttered in embarrassment.

"My ladies, the three sisters, do," Gilraen said earnestly.

"Do they?" said Glorfindel uneasily. "I never knew."

"Perhaps you should ask them, Master, to take you with them... come summer," she said, not devoid of mischief.

"I will give some thought to the matter," he said with finality. "And you, my lady, are you done with bathing?"

"Not quite," she said, running her hands over her limbs. "I am wet still, and would have a final measure of sun-warmth. Wait with me for a moment. Let us give some time to idle chatter, as one never does in the house of Elrond."

He gave no answer, but finally managed to look at her and keep quiet any signs of agitation. "Idle?" he said. "Is there room in your mind for thoughts unrelated to the greatness of events fallen to our lot?"

"My ladies tell me that I must let my mind wander, nay, send it wandering far and long past, not dwell on the immediate and what is to come. I'm sure that means into the story of your kind, Master Glorfindel, which is so closely tied to the story of Middle Earth itself." She shook out her still-streaming hair, and turned her body to another angle into the pouring sun.

"I have not the mind for stories," he said. "I would speak rather of this very instant, of these feelings aroused in me by the contemplation of you in all your true and natural beauty, in the bareness of your soft skin, so like to a warm autumn sunrise as the one we have been blessed with on this day." He reached out and stroked her hair softly, searching her eyes.

"Feelings, my lord?" she said. Now it was Gilraen who dropped her eyes to avoid the piercing gray stare.

"I will ask you, Gilraen, about that which causes arousal in a woman. But I will say first that both men and elves are kindled by sight, by an image. Such as yourself, your bare body open to Arien's rays."

The girl considered the idea for a while, then answered, "I believe that for women, both elven and mortal, it is the ear more than the eye. A song, a whisper, a well-chosen word. It is these that awaken our desire."

The elf-lord sat in pondering, and finally smiled at his young charge. "I thank you for this intelligence, my lady," he said. "You have given me a wide and wonderful avenue for thought. And I still must reward you with a story of old. Though not today," he said with finality. "Are you dry enough to dress now?"

"I am," she said, picking her way back to the tree. He followed her slowly, feasting his eyes for one last time on the undulating movements of her haunches. She took up her dress and dropped it over her arms and head, and the vision was gone.

Glorfindel sighed and picked up Rogarin's bridle. He handed it to her and turned to see to his own loitering gray. She placed the bit and buckled the straps, then led her mount to a stump. In an instant she was settled and ready, and joined the elf already on his way up the valley.

"I remember you had a great white horse," she called to him. "I have not seen him these days in the stables, and always you have been riding the gray."

"Asfaloth," he said fondly, "my brother-horse. I sent him to Lothlorien with the most precious of charges. Arwen Undómiel would abide with her mother's kin for a time, and Elrond her father was troubled about the journey."

"I recall the story of how Lady Celebrían was taken by an orc-band on that very road," said Gilraen. "Long ago, but Uncle surely has never forgotten."

"So I sent her on Asfaloth, who she knows well and loves her. Nary will an orc or bandit lay a hand on that merry bell-tinkling rein, but Asfaloth will squash it in a wink. And he will thrive in the garden of the Lady Galadriel for a time," he finished thoughtfully.

"I have heard whispers of the Golden Wood," said Gilraen. "Mortals shun its very borders, even my people, for fear of being taken and lost forever in the forest depths. This I have heard, Master, but is it so?"

"Only the Dúnadan, among all mortals, has ever been welcome in the Lady's court," said Glorfindel carefully. "Even we Eldar must await summoning by her, before venturing into her realm."

"The Dúnadan, you say?" She was instantly alert, her face drawn and pale. "My own lord, my Arathorn...?"

"Indeed, my lady," he said softly. "The son of Arador journeyed with me to that place on one time, shortly before your son was born. The Lady had asked to see him, so the twins and I took him."

"He said naught to me of such a journey!" she cried, reining in her mount. "How could this be?"

Glorfindel pulled his own horse around and drew close to hers. "He was bound by silence, my lady. Also, I believe now that he was deeply troubled by something she must have said."

"Could it be she saw...?" Gilraen's chin trembled, her eyes filling with tears.

"Perhaps," said Glorfindel sadly. "She sees much of what is to be, though seldom does she tell. To what end, she says. But she was much pleased by the Lord Arathorn and comforted by the news he brought of the child to come. Not at this time, or in the few seasons to come, but in due course she, too, will take part in the higher education of young Estel, my lady. Perhaps he will be summoned for a time to the Golden Wood. Perhaps."

"My only son, the only child I shall ever bear, and he not mine," she smiled bitterly. "Always his great destiny before us... mine was to bring him to light, and then go my way alone."

"Not alone, my lady," said the elf-lord. "We love you, each and all of us. Every day in your gracious company is a hundred years' worth... we will be with you always... as long as you want us," he finished lamely.

"I foresee it will be quite brief by your measure, my lord. The long Dúnedain years will scarcely be my lot. And I do not desire them." The girl dug her heels into the sides of Rogarin, and he, surprised, leaped forward and galloped down the path they had taken out of the valley of Rivendell.

Glorfindel let her go, watching her fine seat and oneness with her mount. Her heart, he knew, was taken by feelings in conflict. She was angry, she was sad. Perhaps she was frightened, a little, and just a bit jealous. "Gilraen is still a girl," he reflected, "barely a woman, and her fate has been an intense lifetime's worth in just a few years. Much too soon has she lived, by our standards, and much too quickly. The love of her son will be for always, but almost she is as much a child as he."

He sighed and turned Savoron toward another, higher, path. He would not return at once to the house, but he knew Gilraen was safely on her way. Having come this far, it was well to make the rounds of the territory. "At least once before the snows come," he thought. "If there are signs of marauding creatures, we are still in time to hunt them down." The brilliant autumn afternoon swallowed the horse and rider happily.


	24. Ice and Fire

_Chapter Twenty-__four: Ice and Fire_

Days followed one upon the other, each one shorter, colder, and less colored. It began to snow on the high ridges, and puffs of freezing mountain breath came down into Imladris itself. Doors and windows were shut and curtained, fires burned all day in the sleeping quarters, and the great blaze in the Hall of Fire was twice what it had been all through the autumn season.

This was winter, then, cold enough but far less than the bitter sweeping winter that covered the moors of Eriador. Not always snow, actually more seldom, but invariably sheets and sheets of steadily falling rain.

Gilraen sighed, hugging herself under the thick fur wrap. Winter was the time of her most lengthy and detailed memories. Arathorn home from the field, there was little work to do. Crops had been harvested, meat had been smoked, fuel for a thousand fires piled up in little rooms behind the kitchens, all needs and wants considered in good time and made ready for… thus she remembered the winters of the Dúnedain.

She wandered slowly along the hall to the kitchen, but stopped before reaching the doorway. A burst of laughter seemed to push her away: she had no heart for mirth, but even less desire to dampen that of others. She turned quietly and went back, drifting finally into the Hall of Fire.

A great fire crackled in the hearth, but there was no one in the vast chamber. She pulled a large, plump chair up to the grate and sank her body into its soft depths while her mind went eagerly into the orange-yellow flames.

"Are you there?" she asked softly. He answered not, but she felt he was. "I am here in search of you, love, for I cannot find joy in life without you." She stared on into the fire, but a feeling invaded her: that if she closed her eyes, she would feel his arms come around her, and his warm breath on her neck.

Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over, but she held her gaze to the fire. She knew well the way of the sprites that mesmerized the will and caused eyelids to droop, and weakened one's resolve. Vain promises in the darkened sight, vanished as eyes came eagerly open in search of the heart's desire. Her mother, and her mother's mother, as well as Lynael and Larat, all had trained her in the art of fire-gazing, so she was more than warned against the tiny enemies that came out of the skin striving against the tasks of concentration, perception and projection.

Far from the Hall and its blazing fire, Estel clambered down the path from the high chamber of Elladan and Elrohir. The twins had taken him up with them to fetch a bundle of metal weapons, mostly arrowheads, some knives and swords, and several other pieces all wrapped and tucked into three knapsacks, two large and one small. There was no fire in the high chamber, although a hearth was not lacking. "We need no fire," Elrohir had said shortly when Estel inquired.

"Ice-cold is a great force and mystery of Arda," said Elladan in explanation. "We must hold it in great awe, but not fear or hate it. Great lessons are to be learned from it."

"I am not very cold," said Estel brightly. "Look…" He blew clouds of his breath and laughed. "There is fire in me, and comes out smoke!"

"Fire and smoke?" laughed Elrohir. "In a way, you are not so far off the mark."

They had taken up their packs and begun the descent, stopping here and there to behold the splendid views of the winter valley. The snow, they noted, was creeping down the mountainside. Before the once-around of Tilion, it will have reached the gardens. "There will be ice around the riverbanks," said Elladan.

Estel stopped a moment and squatted to inspect a flash that had caught his eye in the dry grass. He parted the stems carefully and revealed a round shiny white stone. "Like the pretty face of Isil," the child said happily, looking up at his cousins. "I would take it for my pocket," he added, patting his side where his pouch hung from his belt, "may I?"

Elrohir nodded and Elladan moved close to better appraise it. "It is not, as I thought, a fragment, Elrohir. It is a piece in itself. And I will not err in saying that it has known the hand of an artisan, certainly long ago."

"But what are the ages to a crystal seed such as this," concurred his twin, "that can lay in waiting under sun and stars until another hand takes it up once more."

"My little hand…! Is it not so, cousins mine?" Estel's twinkling eyes jumped from face to face to the stone on his palm. He ran a fingertip over the smooth surface, cleaning away bits of clinging soil, then turned it over to examine the nether side.

It was, in truth, a preciously-worked jewel of milky white. The size of a hazelnut, it was not a true orb but rather flattened on one face and more rounded on the other. The twins could not say what matter of crystal it was, with its cloudy blue radiance from the heart; but their destination at this time was precisely the place where an answer could be had.

"Come, Estel," said Elrohir, "we will show your pretty stone to Master Aülean. He will surely tell us what there is to know about it."

The child pocketed the isil-stone, as he had named it, and took up his pace between the two tall elves along the narrow path. They stopped at a sharp turn and stepped onto a smaller track forking away which Estel had not seen. His eyes widened and ears pricked up as he followed in Elladan's footsteps, attentive to all signs and marks around them. "I believe this child will never be lost," Elrohir thought with a smile, watching the little woodsman-pup register the sights and sounds of the path to the smithies. It was something of a wild path, he admitted. As the Master wills.

A final curtain of brush seemed to block their way, but Elladan slipped around and lifted it enough for his brother to pass. Estel hardly needed so, as his short stature was barely the height of the curtain's ragged bottom edge. He passed without a thought, much more taken with the wide cave-mouth opened now before them. An elf unknown to him sat by the entrance, but he was soon put at ease by the comradely salutation exchanged with the twins.

Elrohir spoke further. "This is Deimeron, little cousin. He is of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain of long-ago Eregion. This, Master Deimeron, is our young Dúnadan kinsman. We have come to present him to the Mírdain smiths and to pay our respects to Master Aülean. And we bring some work for us to do, under the guidance of your lordships."

"You are ever welcome here, Sons of Elrond. And the little Dúnadan, we have heard something of his coming. I remember a short time ago, the sire of this one learning at our forges," the elf-smith said, scrutinizing Estel.

"He has passed," said Elladan briefly. "The boy is now fostered in Imladris."

"There is news, I see," said Deimeron. "But it can wait. Enter now, and take the boy to the forges. The Master is within."

Elladan took the boy's hand and stepped into the cave-mouth. Once inside, a short passage led winding into an antechamber carved beautifully from the living rock. Estel's eyes opened wider than ever, taking in the glitter and beauty above them, but it was a lantern glowing with a pale blue light that captured his attention completely.

He drew a finger towards it carefully, gauging its hotness, and finally touched the crystal encasement. He looked back at his kinsmen and said smiling, "Not hot."

"Come," said Elrohir. "There are wonders uncounted awaiting you." Estel gave a final stare into the depths of the lantern, and turned to follow the twins. They passed from one passageway to another, deep into the mountain, and nowhere was darkness ensconced. The same blue light ran throughout the halls, picking out the glitter of innumerable jewels set everywhere, bouncing off curves and angles of polished stone, and melting into artifacts and embossments of shining perfect metals, yellow, white, red, and a deeper blue.

Estel moved once again in tow, as he would have stayed for time untold following with his eyes the flow of brilliant beauty that seemed to go on and on into countless halls and chambers. Elladan steered him patiently, pointing out details he thought the child would especially take to. They finally came to a great chamber, an immense cavern whose ceiling did, at last, give way to shadows.

Estel pulled at Elladan's sleeve. "More big than the Hall of Fire," he whispered. The tall elf nodded agreement.

A balustrade wrought in stone vines and flowers set off a circular space illuminated by a peculiar light, the source of which could not be discerned. An old elf standing in thought before a large table of polished stone was instantly aware of the intrusion in his sanctum. His glance took in the twin sons of Elrond and a tiny mortal swinging from the hand of one of them. "Elladan," he confirmed to himself as they approached.

"Revered Master," said the other, Elrohir, as they bowed as one before the Elder. The boy followed suit, bowing in clumsy grace as tiny children will. "We bring greetings from our Lord, and some work we would finish under your guidance, providing you can devote some time to us."

"Time is of no meaning to me, Sons of Elrond," he said, his voice echoing into the unseen heights of the chamber. Estel was impressed into unmoving silence. "The little Dúnadan," said Aülean in a manner of question, "early for his training at the forges. You are welcome. The great fires are not yet stoked."

"This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn," said Elrohir quietly to the old Master, "known among us now by the name of Estel. His presence here is known by very few, and the circumstance of his sire's passing."

"Come, child," said Aülean in softer tones. He sat on a low stool and beckoned again to the boy. "Come hither." Estel did not need to be prodded. He approached the Master with some curiosity, and reached out to touch the long gray beard. He smiled, taken somehow back to another one, half-forgotten but loved nonetheless.

"Show Master Aülean your isil-stone, little one," said Elladan.

Estel took the smooth gemstone from his pouch and placed it on his palm, extended towards the Master. It gleamed innocently on the child's pink palm, impervious to the old smith's gaze. Aülean asked seriously of the boy, "May I?" Estel nodded, and the Master took up the isil-stone. He passed a bit of cloth over it expertly, and held it up to the unseen source of light.

"Isil-stone is a good and proper name, young Estel," he said. "This one comes from far away, from a land that is no more save under the sea, broken and dissolved into the sands of Belegaer."

"He espied it among the undergrowth up the mountain," said Elrohir.

"His eye is sharp," said Elladan.

"This stone, isil-stone as you call it, young Estel, is a helper for finding balance of your heart and your will. Helpful also to a healer, and to one who would travel over water; for new beginnings and for coming to terms with changes. It is a gem of hope, _estel,_" finished the old Master, with his eye on the boy.

"I am Estel," he said. "The isil-stone is welcome to my pocket." He patted his pouch once again. Aülean delivered the gem back to its finder and watched it disappear into the depths of its new home. This Númenorean cub was as good a depositary as any; if this gem had been cut and polished by Finrod Felagund, as he suspected, it would warm his heart to know it had found its way into the hands of a long son of Beren.

"Also good for gardening," he added. "Keep it well."

The child's attention was taken suddenly by a large sort of grasshopper climbing up over the edge of the Master's polished stone table. It moved slowly, with solemn purpose and totally without fear. Estel watched in fascination as the insect advanced lifting one and then another slender leg terminated each in two tiny claws, until it reached a spot that seemed its own, for it settled its fat paunch down and rubbed its leg squeaking against a wing. The boy looked up at Master Aülean in question.

"She is an old friend," the Elder said. "Come winter, she leaves the gardens of Arda and seeks the warmth of the smithies." He reached out and stroked the forewings carefully. "See her bright colors and artful etching, young Estel."

"She is beautiful," said the boy, "but maybe also she bites?"

"It may be," answered the Master with proper seriousness. "She is a crotchety old thing. Very old, in cricket years." Estel seemed properly impressed. "She has long been my winter companion, and the inspiration for this, her deathless child." He took from a hidden pocket in his tunic a small packet wrapped in dark blue silk. He laid it on the table, a hand's breadth from the thoughtful insect, and removed the enveloping layers. Uncovered, a second locust was set aright, close to its originating mother. The twins came forward in astonishment.

"Her very image, Master," breathed Elladan, "but much smaller. And the work is as her lines and colors, precise. As if either could well sit here forever, or leap away into the shadows."

"Or they could go together, and fill the forest with golden grasshoppers," said Elrohir, "for I believe this one to be her fitting consort, a tiny son of Kementari."

"Why say you, cousin?" asked Estel.

"Observe," said Elrohir. He took a long needle from the Master's tool jar at the side of the table and pointed carefully. "Not only is he smaller. Also there are, at her tail, two little flat plates side by side. See?" The insect moved, self-consciously. Estel squinted and twisted his head to get a view of her ovipositors. "Now, the hopeful suitor," said Elrohir, winking at his brother. He brought the needle point to the tail end of the gold-and-jeweled animal and signaled the corresponding part.

"Only one, she has two. This one, is… like a…" Estel cupped his hand and signed a curving surface.

"Like a hollow?" the Master smiled in approval as Estel nodded. "Very good, my boy. Your eye is, verily, sharp, as your kinsman has said before."

"And this beauty, Master?" asked Elladan. "It seems to carry a springtime call for a distant and beloved lady."

"Too distant, my young friend," said the Master sadly. "And my springtime passed with my sworn brother Celebrimbor." He smiled nonetheless. "But you strike true about the lady. She loved all small things living. If ever I may find berth on the ship, I will take it to her."

"The ship…" said Elladan, "but have you sought passage, Master? Would you not go to the Havens, and embark?"

"I would, but there lies upon us yet the Ban of the Valar, young Elladan. Upon us who followed the House of Feänor." His eyes seemed to gaze first at nothing, then turn into himself. "And we must meet again in battle with Lord Annatar, bearer of gifts. I would not go to eternal bliss without having set my hand to the sword of justice that will bring him down at last." He smiled again at one twin and the other, and then looked intently at Estel, tracing the needle around the elderly grasshopper. "Though perhaps I foresee that my part will be only in the forging of such sword, to be wielded by the hand of the Chosen One."

"Our father believes, too, that the time of the Eldar in these Great Lands is coming to an end," said Elrohir musingly. "He will take passage on the ship, come the time, and seek his long encounter with the Lady Celebrian our mother. And I know he desires that we take ship with him."

"There are doubts, young one?" asked Master Aülean in some surprise. "I would say another lady is involved." He scrutinized Elrohir closely. "Yes, there must be among your tasks that you have brought for the day, a tiny jeweled harp at which you have been hammering all the winter past. Or have you done with it?" His merry old eyes twinkled at his pupil's flustered protest.

"I have sent it with Arwen my sister to a lady in the Golden Wood, Master," he said finally. "In Lorien abides one called Ailawan Lirulin, for her lovely soaring song and her eyes of green honey."

"Yes, well do I recall you articulating the amber and green stones in pointed ovals. At the time I found it curious." The old master shook his himself to clear his mind, then stepped to the table. "Let me see your work, my boys," he said to the twins.

As the brothers unwrapped the pieces of weaponry they had brought, Master Aülean turned once more to the child still engrossed with the insect. He noticed that the boy was drawn much more to the living than to the jewel, so he took it up and held it to his lips. He focused for an instant, and then puffed a short breath into the abdominal cavity through the tail. As he placed it again on the table near its living mother, the jeweled grasshopper began to chirp, seeming to rub his leg against his forewing as she had done before. Estel was right away taken, but the old lady grasshopper was not.

Clearly fussing, she picked up and turned away, leaping over the balustrade in an elegant arc belying the story of her many years.

Like her friend the master metal-smith, with his hard, agile body and his untiring energy. Perhaps his vast age did show in one aspect, in his acute and dispassionate understanding of all things within and without himself. Far and almost forgotten was the time of the brotherhood, Mírdain, and their one-minded relentless search for the Perfect Work. It was thus that the Enemy pierced them to the heart, and brought upon them the punishment long-predicted by the Valar Mandos… _Tears unnumbered ye shall shed… slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief… _ Although his own lot fell into the final clause of the Ban: _to grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and wane, and become as shadows of regret… _

But Elrond Half-Elven with his brilliant life-force had snatched them away from the murdering forces of Sauron, and then brought them to contentment, if not joy, in the haven of Imladris. He was a great warrior then, the father of these two quiet heroes. Young, in the Eldar count of years, and yet wise; Gil-galad entrusted him always with the most diverse and sensitive missions, and with seemingly impossible ones: to aid Eregion against Sauron, for instance.

"So long has passed," he whispered to himself. Then suddenly, as if understanding his need, the bright-colored grasshopper flew out of nowhere and landed on Aülean's chest, hopped onto his sleeve and climbed to the shoulder. She settled between two strands of the braid adornment of his tunic, and chirped. "You are right," he said with a smile, "it is time to stoke the fires and get to work."


	25. Time Ever Marching Gilraen's Journal

_Chapter Twenty-five: Time Ever Marching (Scraps from Gilraen's Journal)_

My boy is thriving, I fight to keep from waning. Not a one will speak of it, but my heart cannot evade the knowledge of this day: a full turn of Arien our glorious sister through still blue Ilmen, and of the stars of Elbereth, have passed since that most evil of days, that which tore from me my heart and laughter.

My ladies, the three wise sisters, have driven me with loving soft force to the kitchens to prepare different tidbits for Estel. For my Aragorn. They claim he must train his palate to Dúnedain foods as well as elven delicacies, as he is of both. A kind way of reminding me that his humankind mortal nature exacts a wise use of our time with him, and an artifice for bringing me to nourishment, I know. I do see through their tender strategies, but nothing in me would arouse resistance to their care. But for my darling mother, they are the best of teachers, companions and guardians.

Vaneta has finally had her way… she has pulled me up into a secret little valley up the mountain, where she and her comrades keep special trees and bees and flowers, those that have their long homes in hot, distant lands. With the greatest tenderness she took me to the bush from which the pearls of _shacorot_ are plucked, and allowed me to touch the plump pods full.

One such pod she deemed ready, and after whispering long with her lips pressed to the slender trunk, she sliced it from the stem with a quick cut. The pod she passed to me for holding, while she took a bit of bee-wax from her pocket and warmed it with her breath, then applied a poultice to the wound.

Vaneta chirped happily as we picked our way back down, explaining to me the great wonders and benefits of _shacorot_. Goodness knows Estel loves it above all other food-drinks, but now it seems she wants me to partake of today's find. "It makes for joy, this potion from our sweet earth's love," she said, drawing her arm around my waist, "this special sort of love from our Mother Kementari. Do you will?"

What could I say? So tonight I shall sit by her fire and learn the first of the deep mysteries of the magical beverage. If there is joy to be had, I will concur…

Rogarin has changed so. Three summers now without the weight and the hand of his master, and the quiet peace of these valleys. That last… his last battle, has surely gone from his animal mind and his interests now lie in carrying me safely, taking Estel on the whirlwind, and courting the fine elven mares.

There is no fight among stallions, as these are superior horses with consciousness of their own. Most have one mare as wife, and they come and go together, breed foals, raise them and show them their first skills. Rogarin is not yet of this condition, for he was a fiery stallion upon the moors, but his ways are more and more mellow. He has, I have heard, planted his seed in one honey mare he is often with; the elven horsemen await the coming of this foal with great interest.

I have finished today one more leaf of the book of herbs, so the count comes to four tens and seven. Every walk in the woods or up the mountain includes the collection of one, two or three samples of plant-friends that may serve us in many ways. The leaf or flower is then placed between two sheets of parchment and weighted down, so at the end of a fortnight it has been pressed flat; then we fix it to its own sheet, and annotate the place and the day it was collected, together with any other bit of detail regarding that encounter. Given that the flower or leaf will fade, I have added to each a drawing, and color, of it as it was when it was in the earth, growing.

Estel loves it, and spends hours turning the thick pages carefully. When I began to record our findings on these parchment leaves, he would pick out words he had learned and read them aloud, tracing the strokes with his fingertip. Now he reads a great deal of the words, which he has captured one by one as if they were flying insects. Although these he has hoarded and kept for his own, while the little buzzing ones he always sets free.

My son has grown quiet more and more in these years. Always his laughter was my music, as the small child, now his gray eyes search more and his judgment reserved. What he knows, what he remembers, what is forgotten… I hesitate to pry. And my word was given to Lord Elrond, in those terrible days when he sought to keep whole the joy in living of the Heir of Isildur. Of course he was right. He is always right.

Although time seems to stretch away into nothingness, my counting mind forgets never the days -all too few and brief- that lie before us, in which to bring the boy to the man, to the chieftain, to the king. To the king that must return.

_End of Book One_


	26. The Quiet Child that Eats no Meat

Book Two - THE BOY ARAGORN 

_Chapter One: The Quiet Child that Eats no Meat_

Estel sat motionless between two great rocks, watching as a small hare picked its way along the riverbank. The house of Elrond lay far below in the valley, and the child's brevity was such that the creature, usually wary, was quite oblivious to his presence. Only the hare seemed to move in the wide picture, and the trickling waters of the brook. A nibble here, a snuffle there, as the white flash from under the tail moved along up towards the spring.

Sharp gray eyes followed the animal until it rounded a boulder and was gone. The child had no other intent than to extend the reach of his sight and his fine registry of detail. Not consciously, to be certain; he simply did because he did, because this is what he does, always now.

He allowed his vision to travel over the pretty streamside spot, then focused sharply on the flow itself. The transparent absence of bulk and color were no impediment for Estel to follow the water. Its pace was slow and lazy, and in any case his sharp eyes easily picked out whatever fragile bubble was traveling on the stream, and followed it for the space between two eyelid-blinks.

But there was more, Elrohir had said. A twig or a leaf or a bubble are not water, and to see water one must set on it and no other. The same as everything, mused Estel to himself in the warming sunshine. Look at the bird, not the leaves… not the branch, not the sky above or the ground far below. The little yellow bird, at first, easy, and in time the speckled brown ones, harder. The tenth ant in the column, the scrap of gray cloud moving against the white, three little stars together in the sparkling fields of Elbereth. He watched them all, and learned the true nature of stillness: never quite so, always something moving, however small and subtle.

And yes, there. In the huge still picture of the valley, a tiny flash came once and again, then once and again, and once and again. Estel drew back between the boulders and collected his gear, checking the contents of his little pack and securing his sturdy stick at the base of the great rock, under the loose little rocks and pebbles.

"You will wait for me here," he whispered to the stick as he covered it lightly. "Now I must run down, not climb up. I will return, and need you again. Goodbye." The boy wriggled out behind the rocks and set his bearing towards the flash below. There was no path, nor did he require one. His slim little body barely made a mark on soil or sand, and scarce whispers where he passed among shrubs and grasses.

As the small domed roof of the twin's high chamber came into sight, he glanced round without slowing his sharp descent, and finding the tight nook above the path made the flying leap and landed running, but now with more restraint. After all, his tall cousins would be awaiting him at the door of the chamber, and he must trot up to them in a staid gait, not in agitated panting, and certainly not slow. Brisk, Elladan had said some days ago. Your trot must be brisk, to not tire you and yet carry you in the briefest time to your destination.

Estel rounded the final bend in the path and saw, as he expected, the two tall elves awaiting his arrival. His breath was steadied, though his face was still flushed and his eyes sparkling.

"I see the stream in his eyes," Elohir said aside to his brother.

Elladan grinned in agreement. "He must have come down the mountain fleeter than the deer itself. Or was it a hare?"

They each held out an arm as he approached them, and hooked the others together as he let himself fly in a leap onto the structure of their arms, chests and shoulders. The two stepped once back to absorb the force of the child's impetus, then swung their fastened arms back and forth while Estel balanced for the length of two deep breaths.

He finally collapsed with a shout and caught himself on the shoulder of one tall twin, while the other grabbed him by the ankles and held him high. "Only in exhilaration of his mountain run does the quiet child let loose such a bellow," laughed Elladan. "Will you fly, little Estel?"

"Yes!" gasped the child, then gathered himself as Elladan swung him forward, and straightened himself in the air once released. He landed in a neat half-crouch, solid and unwavering, then leaped up again. The three applauded their feat, and Elrohir tousled Estel's hair.

"You are a strong boy and fearless," he said. "And you grow quickly."

The lad smiled shyly and then changed the subject. "Up there," he said, "at the spring I was watching."

"What were you watching?" asked Elrohir seriously.

"A young hare, then the water," the child answered with equal gravity. These were lessons, he knew, now in the phase of his own independent practice.

The other twin gestured him into the chamber. "Now let us see your hoard. What have you brought from the mountain?" The three entered and each took his familiar seat around the short-legged worktable they had enabled for Estel.

The boy slipped off his pack and placed it on the table. "Everything packed safe and firm," he said, "so not to break or mess." He took a small parcel from the pack and held it in his hands. "One empty nest, I did not touch because the birds come again, maybe. Took out shards of egg. Will you see?" he asked one and the other of his mentors.

"We will," said Elrohir. "Show us your wrappings."

Estel unwound a length of soft cloth and revealed the still-curved bits of eggshell, took each piece and laid it out neatly. "All from one nest in a tree-hole high up. Brown-speckled, the eggs," he said, holding the largest piece up for examination. The twins observed the sample and nodded.

"Do you know this bird, cousin Estel?" asked Elladan.

"Gray back, red breast, black line here," he answered, tracing a line from the corner of his eye across his ear to the nape of his neck. "Pretty song..." He sat up and framed his lips around a stream of sweet warbling. The twins nodded again, but did not say the name of the little songbird. There was time enough, they had long agreed, for the boy to learn names and families; now it was sufficient for him to register, register all that his bright mind could grasp. Images, both pictures and sounds. Information to his touch, sensations up his flaring little nostrils. The names, when he would ask.

"What more have there?" asked Elladan again, as the boy unwrapped another sample.

"This leaf, three forms at once," said Estel. "A big tree, the one with flowers like this," he held up a lavender-colored stone; "for Vaneta," he interposed in explanation, and set it aside, "but none now, only leaves but so many, and some very small," he pointed to a bud, "some like a leaf in shape but little," he indicated a tender, well-formed leaf, "and other big leaves, full-grown." He held up the last leaf and then put it down next to the others.

"And this, my kinsmen, and this other." He partially unwound one packet and took out a fang, as long as his index finger curved, and further removed the wrapping to reveal finally a slender iron arrowhead. "I put them together because I found them together. Near one to the other," he added.

Elrohir took the arrowhead to the window and examined it closely in the bright sunlight. His brother and Estel both waited for his conclusion, although for different reasons: Estel, always curious; Elladan, alert and almost fierce.

"It is not an orc arrow, or at least not one I have seen," he said finally. "And the fang, my brother? What do you make of it?"

"A wolf, a large one," replied Elladan. "See here, Estel? The fang is serrated along its back, for the tearing of flesh. But this is an earthly wolf, not a devilish warg."

"Where did you find them, little cousin?" asked Elrohir.

The boy went out to the terrace along the front of the chamber and looked up at the mountain. "There," he said, pointing, "the trees of the sticky sap, thick together, go down to the spring valley. Up the farthest, by a great two-trunk tree."

"We will find the spot, Estel, with your good picture," said Elrohir. "But you will go down now, will you not?"

"Yes," the boy grinned, "I must take her pretty stone to Vaneta. Also the seeds... but you have not seen them..." He looked at the twins forlornly.

Elrohir hid a smile, and Elladan said, "Take the seeds to Vaneta, Estel, and ask her for a bite to eat. You have earned it. And she will show us the seeds later."

The boy jumped up, spirits instantly raised, and bounded down the steep path, took the fork towards the kitchen wing, and disappeared from the twins' sight. They turned then to go in the other direction, up the mountain Estel had just now come down, and the smiles were gone from their faces.

They would find the spot and read what was lacking in the story. That a wolf had torn an arrow from his own flesh, and yet lived, presumably... but when? And more so, who had let fly the shot? And, where? How far had the wounded animal come, and why to the domains guarded from evil by Elrond's power? This they would know, then come to recount to their father. Even the smallest comings and goings were important, in the delicate balance that was ever the matter of Elrond's labours.

Estel skidded to a stop at the steps leading up to the kitchen balcony. He whistled up a happy bar and took the stairs two at a leap. Vaneta's voice called out in answer, trilling bits of words tied together cleverly. The boy stopped at the doorway and took in the sight and smell of the wonderful lair of wholesome delights, as Momo calls it.

"My sweet boy, welcome ever," Vaneta took his hand and twirled him three times, then planted a kiss on the top of his head. Which was not so far down, now, her fleeting thought as she waved him to his favourite seat at the table. "Will you eat a plate with me, of this and that?"

"I will, oh yes," said the boy with relish. He watched her as she filled his bowl with fragrant portions from this pot and that, though not from the biggest. She added a plump roll of bread and his special spoon, and set it before him.

"A fresh jug of honey-water to sweep it all down, yes?" The boy nodded, his mouth full and eyes shining. "And I will have a cup with you," she added, "and tell you a story."

"Of Beren," he said earnestly. "More of Beren."

"More?" protested Vaneta in jest. "I have told you all that I know... haven't I?"

"You know more," said Estel wisely, "you know very much more."

"This is true, my boy," she said, sadly now, "there is so much to tell, big things and little. Some that you cannot know as yet, that will be told to you in coming days." In her mind they were days, the handful of years that were left still for completing the education of the little king. "My little king," she whispered, stroking his wild black hair. She watched him devour the contents of his plate, and reached a covered basket over to him. "For your last bit of hunger, my Estel, a handful of nut-meats... forgive me, not meats..." his eye flashed at her, "just plain and ordinary nuts. But good! Will you have some?"

The boy looked in the basket and sniffed suspiciously, then smiled and reached in. He took out a goodly portion of nuts and set himself to shelling and eating. The elf-lady did her part and the piles grew, the one of broken husks and the one of juicy kernels, of which she popped one into her mouth every so often.

She smiled to herself at her blunder with the word. Silly of me, she thought, as I know his keenness with detail. And who should be more aware than me, being as it is my foremost concern to feed him well in spite of his renouncement of eating the flesh of the _kelvar_?

Her thoughts went back to the day that Estel said to her judiciously, If we think of all the nuts that one deer will eat, or one boar, in all his life... and the berries, and the green things, and the root-foods, and we eat him in one day, or two. But all the nuts and roots and berries and greens he ate, we could not eat them in one day or two.

She had marvelled then, and told him of Beren, his long forefather, and how he had lived alone in the wild as an outlaw at war with the Shadow. Estel never spoke aloud of it, but she knew that he had lived the sorrows of Beren at the loss of his father; and understood that he haunted the land and sowed terror in the hearts of his enemies, although Estel was, by nature, a gentle soul. It is said, she told him, that Beren ate no flesh nor slew any living thing not in the service of the Dark Lord, for the children of Yavanna were his family and friends.

Vaneta was brought back to the present by Estel tugging at her finger. "Beren," he said. "Tell me more."

She rose and took a kettle of water from the fire. "We shall make a brew and drink as we sing. Pick an herb from the basket." Estel went to the herb-holder and studied its contents, then finally picked a tiny bunch of dark-green leaves and took it back to put in the pot. "_Athelas_?" Vaneta wondered, then, "well yes, why not..." She poured the boiling water into the earthen vessel and covered it to let it steep. She returned to her seat and so did Estel, and they looked into each other's eyes and sang together softly: "_His comrades were the beech and oak who failed him not, and many things with fur and fell and feathered wings and many spirits, that in stone, in mountains old and wastes alone do dwell and wander, were his friends..._"

They were silent for a moment, then Vaneta went on, "There was a hound born and bred in the Blessed Realm, Huan was his name. He hunted at the side of the Vala Oromë, and came to the Hither Lands with Fëanor and his sons, in the dark days after the Kinsl-" Vaneta caught herself and veered away from that passage of the history of the Elder Days, unsuitable as yet for Estel's ears. "This hound, Huan," she continued, "encountered the lady Luthien-"

"Luthien!" cried Estel, jumping up.

"...in the forest while the brothers were hunting," Vaneta went on, "and he took her to them in innocence, never dreaming they would betray the trust and their honor." She watched the emotions succeeding one and another over his candid features, and thus picked her words carefully. "The brothers promised to help her seek for Beren, but their actions belied their words. Huan perceived this, and was troubled." Estel was quiet, intent on her words. She pushed the forgotten brew towards him. "Drink, my boy. I, too, will wet my throat." She sipped and swallowed, then continued, "Luthien was detained in the fortress of Nargothrond, and only then learned that Beren had been there before her, and that King Finrod himself and ten brave elf-lords had gone with him on his hopeless errand. For the love of his love, and for the sake of his father Barahir, who had saved Finrod's life long before. Luthien was very sad, and wept." She watched the water come to his eyes, and stepped up the pace cheerfully.

"But Huan took Luthien from her prison and set her on his back to gallop north in search of Beren, and Finrod. They ran and ran, hardly stopping even to sleep a bit."

"Luthien was riding on Huan like I ride on Rogarin?" Estel was amazed, measuring in his mind the hounds he knew.

"Yes, Huan was very big. He was a wolfhound, and wolfhounds are the biggest of all dogs."

"A wolfhound?" She nodded, and he reflected further, "I found today a fang of a wolf up the mountain. And the pointy head of an arrow. I gave them to my kinsmen the brothers." He was quiet for a moment. "The fang was big, and Elladan said it was a big wolf. Much about wolves, today..." he trailed off and was silent.

Vaneta studied the child and rose to continue her chores. At length Estel thanked her and went out the balcony way. He followed the train of his thoughts to the stone bridge leading to the stables, and stood for a while watching the torrent of the stream passing below. Softly he began to sing, "Wolf-pup running in the wood, come to me, come to me, come and play…"

So wrapped in his memory-reflection he was, that he heard not the quiet footsteps of the tall twins. They stopped and listened for a bit, then of a mind quietly turned and sought the chambers of Elrond.

_Author's Note- Dear fellow Elves, Rangers, et al.: After long, harsh journeys through worse-than-Mordor, we're finally back! Thanks for waiting, and I hope you won't be disappointed. As you can see, several years have passed and our Estel isn't the same buoyant "toddler" as in _Book One: Little Aragorn_ proper; here in _Book Two: the Boy Aragorn_, Estel is five going on six, and he has grown both in mind and body. Other changes? Surely, we'll see in the days to come... _

_Namárië!_


	27. Whence Comes, then, this Arrow?

Book Two - THE BOY ARAGORN 

_Chapter Two: Whence Comes, then, this Arrow?_

"I will never tire of the summers of Imladris," Elrond mused aloud. "My heart knows that such guarded beauty belongs to Yavanna since always and forever." His gaze drifted from this beloved tree to that memorable rock, to the tiny beach carved into the bank of the tumbling stream, and finally to the immense high peaks guarding the valley from the east. "If I feel any longing for the Blessed Realm, for myself, it is for the sweetness of my life's love, Celebrian," he admitted only to the quiet of his own counsel. "I see her by the hour in looks and gestures that pass between my sons, her sons, and in the bright eyes of Arwen Undómiel, such beauty undreamt of..."

He missed his daughter sorely, her music, her laughter, her glowing colors, her dancing feet, but never did he voice an objection when she came with the thought of residing for a time in the Golden Wood with Galadriel and Celeborn. In truth, she was surely as precious to them as she was to him, equally a joy to their hearts. Galadriel it had been, long ago, who said for the first time that Arwen was the likeness of Lúthien, returned at last to Middle Earth, though nevermore to her beloved forests of Beleriand. She would know this, Galadriel, she and Celeborn among the few Eldar remaining who had looked upon Lúthien Tinúviel in her day, fairest among the Children of Ilúvatar.

His thoughts flew back suddenly to the living moment, as he saw appear on the path from the bridge the former subjects of his musings, the twins Elladan and Elrohir. They came with swift strides, and Elrond read into their strong movements an agitation of sorts, an anxiety. He waved as they came to the foot of the balcony.

"What news, my sons?"

"Ada, we would speak with you," Elrohir began.

"Come inside," answered Elrond, and disappeared into the chamber.

He waited for them at the door, and closed it after them. The three seated themselves in silence, the elder awaiting a word from the two. He noticed they were just now down from the mountain, but understood that their climb had been in haste, likely for a motive of some importance.

"You were up the mountain," he encouraged.

"Yes, Ada, just now returned," Elladan volunteered.

"Estel went up, early in the morn," Elrohir resumed. "He went to the spring, to train his eye and collect bits of whatever he finds of interest."

"He goes often," added Elladan, "sometimes we go together but he does well alone." In spite of his words, he seemed in a conflict of sorts.

"What did Estel find at the spring?" Elrond asked, his voice level.

"This, Ada, and this," Elladan produced the wolf-fang and the arrow-point, and laid them on a small table. He pushed the table close to his father.

"Together?"

"Yes, Ada."

"So you went to see for yourselves," he gazed at one twin and the other.

"We did."

"And you found...?"

The brothers exchanged a glance and Elrohir continued. "It was not at the spring itself, but farther up the slope. At the highest part of the copse of red nettle-trees, in a sheltered and hidden nook one would hardly notice."

"Save our bright Estel," Elrond interposed with a smile.

"Estel," said Elladan, "no hidden spot passes his searching eye."

"The fang of a wolf, Ada, lost in the struggle to free it from a dart-point struck into its flesh." Elrohir pointed to the fang and said intensely, "We found her, Ada, but kept downwind and distant enough. She lived, yet."

"Alive?" Elrond frowned, now intent, and looked more closely at the fang. "But there is more."

"She was not alone," interposed Elladan.

His brother quickly clarified, "She was wounded gravely, Ada, surely to the death. But she had with her a tiny pup. Alive. We believe she has held off her final moment in a great effort to save it. She must have run away carrying it by the scruff, after the shot, and only stopped when she reached the safety of this valley."

"Hidden in the copse, she tore the point from the wound. And lost the fang." The picture was clear to Elladan.

"We do not know this arrow-point, Ada. How far can she have run? Where lies the bow that let fly this dart?" This was the crucial point for Elrohir.

Elrond turned his attention to the iron point. "It is indeed strange, my sons. We must show it to Glorfindel, and if he knows it not, the smiths surely will understand enough simply from the work itself." He rose, and his sons with him. Elladan took up the two objects and tucked them into a pocket. "I would seek for Glorfindel and take all of us some nourishment with Vaneta. We must discover the story in its entirety."

The three sought down the hall for Glorfindel's quarters, but he was not within. "At the stables, perhaps," said Elladan. "Should I seek him there?"

"Let us to the kitchens," Elrond went on, "we will send for him from there."

His steps are quick, though they flow as always, observed Elladan to himself. Thus is Ada worried, also. Estel up the mountain, with a wolf. A she-wolf, with a pup.

They reached the kitchen, but their comrade was not there. "Vaneta," said Elrond, "we would have Master Glorfindel here for a word. And yourself, if we may."

Vaneta called out to Darmel, sheaving a sackful of _veyat_ , on the terrace. She met him at the doorway and whispered to him, he nodded to the three inside and turned to go down the rough stairway. "He will find the Lord Glorfindel quickly," she said, returning to the hearth. "Would you drink a fresh brew, masters?" She gathered four drinking-vessels and then a fifth, her own, and filled one for each of them. The other remained empty, awaiting the arrival of the last of the company.

"Sit with us, if you please, Vaneta," said Elrond, taking the brew and nodding his thanks. "There is a matter upon which you must say your mind. Regarding Estel."

The elf-lady looked up at the name, intent at once. "Say on, my lord," she said.

"We will wait for Glorfindel," he answered, "so as to not tell the story twice. At this time I would have you say what has passed with Estel this morning after coming down the mountain. He came to take his nourishment with you."

"He did, my lord," she smiled. "As is his way, hungry and happy, although still refusing foods from the flesh of the _kelvar_. Nuts he eats, a great many. And other foods, enough to fill his little body growing ever taller."

"He loves each creature, those that crawl, fly or run," said Elladan. "I wonder not that he is refraining from foods that have cost them their precious lives."

"Yet his nourishment has not failed," Elrond observed, "because Vaneta strives to find balance for him." He patted the lady's hand, robust from kneading unnumbered good, stout breads. "But tell us, dear friend, what has passed with Estel this day, out of the ordinary?"

"He came with his trilling, as always, and hungry... as always. While he ate I told him more of the story of Beren, though not of him but of divine Lúthien, the day she encountered the Hound of Valinor." Vaneta sighed, and continued. "I choose with great care the words for the story, and what must not yet be said. He is still a little boy, though wise in many ways and growing so quickly."

"Was he troubled by the story, by a word or an image?" Elrohir glanced at his brother.

"When I told him Huan was a great wolfhound, his thought went elsewhere. He told me of his findings up the mountain, and I believe he went his way in remembrance of some small seed from his tiny life."

"That it is, then," said Elladan, rising. "We came upon him on the bridge, gazing at the water and singing softly."

"His wolf-pup song. He noted us not." Elrohir searched his father's eyes. "We had never heard from him this tune, only from the Lord Arathorn, on the eve of the cruel day he was taken from us."

""When a child is stricken by pain from evil chance, many doors may close in his mind. And he senses that none would speak of it, thus it seems to fade. But Estel, I believe, has forgotten nothing." Elrond looked at the three in turn. "Would you say otherwise?"

A shadow fell across the doorway, and Glorfindel spoke a word of greeting. Vaneta rose to welcome him, and waved him to the seat next to Elrond, across from the twins and herself. She filled his cup with brew and placed it before him.

"We are speaking of Estel," Elrond said, "and of what memories he may retain as yet."

"For my part," said the golden-haired elf, "I believe he remembers as if in dreams. On a time he recalls his Dada... although we all of us know that the boy has grown quiet in these seasons past." He paused and drank deeply, then turned to Elrond. "There is fresh news, from the course of the morning?"

The twins and Vaneta each told a part of the story, and Elladan placed the fang and the arrowhead before them on the table. Glorfindel looked closely at them.

"There are two questions here," said Elrond, "one dealing with the birthplace of this dart, and the hand that forged it. Although of possibly great importance, this is not so pressing a matter as the other."

"Estel," said Glorfindel, "the matters of his memories, and his wandering so alone."

The four looked at him curiously.

"Yes," he added, "I have given myself to these thoughts as well."

"Ada, we wish to bring the wolf-pup down for Estel to keep and foster," Elrohir spoke to his father but included the others in his question. "At this hour the mother has surely relented, and her life gone back into the stuff of Arda. The youngling will follow soon."

There was silence in the warm kitchen, each deep in thought, seemingly weighing and measuring. Finally the Master of Imladris spoke.

"Return to the red nettle-tree grove, and regard what has passed in the hours thus gone," he said. "If life has gone from the mother, but not the pup, take it and bring it to us, first. I believe, as you do, that it is meant for Estel. However, the Lady Gilraen must know of this and give her consent. Are you agreed, my friends?" he looked at Vaneta and Glorfindel in turn.

Vaneta smiled to herself, contemplating perhaps some secret image in the future of the boy and the wolf-pup. Glorfindel said, "Never in the years of Imladris have we taken to our fireside such a one of the creatures of the Dark Lord." The twins had a look between them and Elrohir went to open his mouth. "But," interposed the blond elf before the words came, "this mother came to us with her final threads of strength, to deliver the last of her children to us for its saving. I believe she was so directed by the Powers, and that the pup brings a gift for Estel as well."

"We go, then, at once," said Elladan, heading out the terrace way. His brother close behind, they disappeared before anything further could be said. Glorfindel turned again to the arrowhead and took it between two fingers, looking closely at it from one side and the other.

"Do you know this sort of point, my friend? I have not seen such a one in my years," said Elrond. "Yet it is no fine workmanship, rather crude. Not from the hands of a master smith, and surely made among countless pieces of small worth."

"I would not say, rather study it with our good Aülean and the others. I will keep this, and seek counsel with them in later hours." Glorfindel pocketed the iron and handed back the fang. "This, for Estel's hoard. Whether it be or no, that he foster the pup, this day's findings are of some importance to him."

"Hold it for him, if you will, and restore it when the moment is come. Now, I ask if you please to speak with me to Gilraen, on the matter of the wolf. I fear it may be a task, of sorts." Elrond's gaze travelled through the doorway into the garden beyond.

"I will," said Glorfindel. "But we best go at once. The twins move quickly and there may soon be a tumult in the house." They rose and thanked Vaneta, then moved with silent step along the corridors to the lady's chambers.

Estel turned away from the tumbling stream and left the bridge, heading for the small side entrance to the house close to his mother's chambers. He was not sure why, but he needed Gilraen's embrace warm around his shoulders. Perhaps Dada...

Only with his mother did he open his heart on this matter. And then only when they were alone, the two of them. Or often the three, when they would take Rogarin and ride together to the high parts of the valley. At those times, far from the great house that was their home as well, they would remember. She would help him see again what once he had seen, and she answered each of his questions as best she could. There had been times when her eyes overflowed, but she never wailed aloud or sobbed. More often, her laughter rang out as it did not in the halls and gardens where she was a lady.

And she would tell of Dada. Of their days together when she was a girl romping in the fields- much like you, my son, she would say- and he a hunter of skill surpassing all others. "And do you know why?" she would ask him. "Because he learned with the _peredhil_ brothers Elladan and Elrohir, as are you learning, now..." Then she would be quiet, and a little sigh would find its way to her breast.

And they sang many songs of their people- the Dúnedain, my son- but they never sang the wolf-pup song, and only today it had risen to his own lips unbidden. As he wandered up the path his mind searched with great effort for the memory of the day of the wolf-pup. Hazy images were all he could muster, and more clearly sounds. He smiled at the sharp little bark, and his heart ached for the booming laugh of Dada.

"Estel, my love," Larat's sweet teasing voice cut through his ponderings, "have you been with your great horse at the stables?" He looked up to see the four ladies on the balcony, laughing and waving, and pulled up at once.

"Momo, my ladies," he said with a proper bow, "have a pleasant morning."

They laughed all the more, and Gilraen blew him a kiss. "Come up, my love, and break your fast with us. Though surely you have by now..." The boy had already disappeared inside, and a moment later knocked politely.

Lynael swept wide the door and motioned him in, taking note of the tousled head of hair and the mud caked on his clothes and shoes. Gilraen spread her arms wide and enveloped her son with daily joy, then quickly felt the urgency in his embrace. She understood, and with a look at Lynael requested a private moment with him. The ladies busied themselves at the fireside, and Gilraen led the boy out to the sun-blessed balcony. They stood at the far corner, Estel upon a small stool, and looked out over the gardens.

"What is it, my son?" she finally began.

He told her briefly of his morning's adventures, but lingered on the fang and the dart-point. "Elladan and Elrohir went to see the spot, and I to have a bite with Vaneta and bring her seeds and a pretty stone. She likes pretty stones very much," he added with a shy laugh. "But she told me more stories of Beren, now of the lovely Lúthien, and of the Hound of Valinor. Huan, she said his name. And then she said Lúthien rode him like a horse, because he was very big: she said he was a wolfhound." Estel gazed at his mother, measuring the effect of his words.

"Wolf-fang, wolfhound, wolf two times in one morning," she said evenly.

"Indeed, Momo. My very thought. But then I was sad in my heart, and sought the bridge with the song of water, and there it sang to me again, _Wolf-pup running in the wood, come to me..._"

"That was a fine day, my love," Gilraen said wistfully, "I remember, and your father. He was so pleased, and he sang with you in his big voice."

"Where is the wolf-pup, Momo?"

She could feel his strong intent pressing on her, and took his hands in hers. "The wolf-pup ran back to his mother, your father said. She called to him in her wolf-voice and he jumped out of your arms and disappeared into the bush. Do you not recall?"

Estel frowned and shook his head very slightly, searching the depths of his memory.

"Come and eat a bit more with us, my son. Trouble yourself no more about this." She rose and he followed her into the chamber, where the sisters had set out a board of most attractive delicacies. The drill was not new to Estel, and he made no protest at the washcloth and water-basin. The hair did not meet with the sisters' approval, but the change of clothes certainly did.

"This green tunic brings the woodland to your eyes," Milia whispered. "You look so very charming, beloved child of the mountain." He smiled and thanked her silently, and for a while there was only the sound of chewing and sipping and approving hums as the fare vanished from the platters into happy bellies.

As was her custom, Milia retired to the balcony with her little harp and let her song drift into the room and out over the garden. Larat and Lynael slipped out the door unnoticed, as mother and son opened a chest and took out a pretty wooden box. They removed the lid and began placing in position a troop of little townspeople, men and women young and old, some children, several horses, and oddities that somehow fit in.

The figures were carved from wood, some of them, and others modelled from clay; one little horse was wrought from blue metal. Different hands were in evidence, but all the figures lovingly formed, and Gilraen's part in the story was the coloring and the painting of tiny details.

They inspected each figure and grouped them according to satisfaction. Three only were deemed worthy, finished, and four others lacking barely a few details. Those in another group had their basic colors applied but had not the features and ornaments that would make them come alive, and the greater part had only a base coat of paint.

The blue metal horse had no paint at all. "He is Nahar by night, Momo," explained Estel, "when the Vala Oromë is taking his ease and has allowed his noble steed to run free. So then he has no harness."

"But perhaps a golden dot for each of his eyes?" Gilraen studied the figure closely.

"Yes," he whispered, "a golden dot." He watched as she shook a tiny jar of soft runny gold, and finally uncorked it and dipped in the very end of her most slender brush. "Your hand is so steady, Momo. As your shot with an arrow, says Master Glorfindel."

She smiled, but voiced no answer as she took the night-Nahar and touched the tip of gold to his tiny eye. The perfect dot was repeated on the other side of the tossing head and Gilraen looked at the piece critically. "I do think the gold would do well in the mane and the tail of Nahar also," she said. "A very few threads within the carved tresses, see? Here, in the crevices. What say you?"

Estel considered. "Very slight, the threads, Momo?"

"Indeed," she said. "Thus." She took up another figure, a knotty tree, and drew a line along its trunk, so thin that the gold seem to sparkle from the surrounding light itself.

"Very slight, Momo, yes," Estel wriggled in satisfaction. "The mane and tail of Nahar, they will have this tiny glitter."

"Most fitting for a steed of the Valar, my son," Gilraen smiled, "a tiny golden gleam." She set the metal piece to dry and took up another figure. "Will you paint hair on this happy old man, Estel? I will make flowers on the skirts of these maidens." She took out and ordered several small pots of color and brushes of varied thickness.

Estel took up his little old man and the brush he favoured from the set. He took a small plate from the box and placed dabs of different colors around the edge, slowly mixing the tone he had in his mind. Gilraen was rapt in the decor of her little girls' skirts, and hummed a tune under her breath.

So Elrond and Glorfindel found them, when they came to persuade Gilraen to allow her son the company of a little orphaned wolf-pup. They quickly felt the task was, somehow, already done.


	28. Keni from Afar

Book Two - THE BOY ARAGORN 

_Chapter Three: Keni from Afar _

She was, indeed, dead. Elladan bent his knee and stroked her side, digging his fingers into her thick fur. "Brave mother," he whispered to her, "your little one will live. Yavanna with us." He looked up at Elrohir. "Take him, brother. I will read the signs left in her."

"Him, you say," Elrohir took the pup in his hands and turned it on its back. "And it is so. He lives yet, though barely." He wrapped the tiny animal in a woolen cloth and tucked it into his tunic breast.

Elladan ran his hands over the dead mother, probing with his fingers. "She has gone but lately," he said, "almost we have attended her final breath."

"Her wound?"

"Hardly would it have cost her life," mused Elladan, "save her mad flight. It depleted her. Even unwounded, she would have run to her death."

"To save her whelp. One of her litter," Elrohir cradled the little body, "for I venture to say there were more."

"At least six," answered his brother, examining her teats. "She took this one and ran, but hardly leaving the others to die." He returned to her dark face and muzzle, now hanging limp from the neck once strong. "Why run, mother, from what foe?"

"Could that arrow hail from a goblin's bow?" Elrohir saw suddenly a story. "The wolf-den assailed by a pack of goblins… the little ones timidly abroad, snatched up and devoured in the wink of an eye. She would have fought back, madly… Outnumbered, she would have taken even one, and run for safety."

Elladan was searching the depths of her maw. "Indeed," he said, "she tore flesh." He sniffed gingerly at a shred of dead meat and cast it away. "Orc," he said, and spat in disgust, then turned again to the dead wolf-mother. "Brave one," he stroked her side once again, "we were kin against the Enemy. We shall care for your pup and raise him as a child of Yavanna.

"We must go, brother, and see to the little one. Let us cover her body with stones at this time; later we may return and raise for her a proper mound."

Elrohir assented, and together they quickly gathered rocks enough to cover the body, curled up as if napping. They took, however, not the way back at once, but followed the trace she had made, coming to give way finally in the shadow of the nettle-trees. They found the spot where she had stopped to pull out the arrow-point, and trailed back to the stream.

"Here she drank, and rested briefly. The very last of her strength was gathered for the climb to her final shelter. A most noble creature, my brother." Elrohir gazed a moment longer at what he saw unfolding in the eye of his mind, and then shook himself. "Let us go."

They made their way swiftly down the mountain and sought the small chamber in the stables, where they kept all provisions for the healing and treating of their horses. There they unwrapped the pup and tended it carefully, rubbing its tiny paws and pumping its legs. Elladan held the little snout and raised the lip on one side, while Elrohir dribbled in a thimbleful of reviving liquor.

At that, the pup awoke suddenly with a squeaky little snarl, and his black bead eyes fixed themselves on the two giants holding him down. "He growls, Elrohir," said Elladan with pleasure, "I feel the buzzing in his little body."

"He shall live, I foresee, and give Estel a good run these coming years," his twin said. "His weight is scant for his size, however, surely from the days of running. Shall we take him first to Vaneta?"

"I believe so," said Elladan. "She will know the best for him to eat now, and regain his strength quickly."

They set the pup down on the floor covered with straw, and observed it taking in the flood of smells and sounds from its surroundings. It sniffed the air to one side and the other, then sat down with a little whine. The lament grew suddenly, it threw back its head and howled a long shrill note.

"Such sadness! We must get him to Vaneta," Elrohir said, scooping the little one up and cradling it against his breast.

"Your heartbeat soothes him, brother," Elladan said as they made their way to the kitchens. They crossed the bridge, stopping for a moment to look up the rushing stream; they breathed a word for the one who had remained there, and went on to the path toward Vaneta's domain.

Trotting briskly up the final stairway, they saw the lady herself awaiting them at the top. "You have brought the babe," she said, not in question.

"We have," answered Elladan. "The mother lived no longer, and the boy-pup would have shortly followed."

Elrohir opened his tunic-breast and drew the little animal out. It was all eyes and ears now, and greeted Vaneta with the tiniest of barks. She shivered with emotion and laughed aloud. "Give me," she said. The pup whined a bit at the exchange, but quickly smelled the food-essence on her hands and ventured a lick of its tongue.

"He must take some nourishment, Vaneta," said Elrohir. "What have you for him?"

"Come, my sons, and tell me all while I make for him a stout gruel. Your father and Master Glorfindel are with Estel and the Lady Gilraen at this time, the ladies Larat and Lynael are here with me. Will you wet your throats with a fresh brew to bring along the story?" Vaneta swept across the sunny terrace and into the savory mist of her cooking-place.

The sisters were seated at the table, sparkling with curiosity as the three came in with the new little charge. The tiny wolf was made much of, and its bright animal wit grew by leaps instant on instant. Vaneta took a small dish and marked it for the pup's own, then settled down to teach it the basic manners expected for eating at the fireside. The twins' story brought sighs and laughter from the ladies, some serious reflection, and general agreement on the likelihood of the events as they were related.

The sound of approaching footsteps was perceived by the five elves, and not by the little wolf busy licking the dish clean. Silence all around was decreed as if by one will, and they sat attentive on the imminent entrance of Estel and his elders.

"Vaneta!" chirped the boy, "what have you-" He stopped suddenly, aware of five pairs of eyes upon him. "What is it?" he whispered.

She rose and took his hand, then led him around the table to the fireside. An arm around his shoulders, she pointed and said softly, "What do you see?"

Estel stiffened with a sharp intake of breath. "Wolf-pup," he said inaudibly, "what is this, Vaneta?" He did not take his eyes from the oblivious pup lapping up the last of the gruel.

"He has come to us for his care and fostering, my love," Vaneta murmured, "to be your friend and companion, up the mountain and down the river."

The boy turned to his mother and mouthed silently, "Momo?" Gilraen nodded quickly, and grasped Elrond's hand behind her back. The elf-lord steadied her arm and bent to whisper in her ear. She nodded again.

Vaneta released Estel's hand and propelled him gently forward. The boy approached the pup slowly and knelt at his side, his gaze fixed upon him. For a long moment they were all thus, unmoving save the pup licking the bowl. Finally satisfied, he seemed to come aware of a body close by. He raised his head and turned to gaze at the creature next to him, smaller than all the others and with those very bright eyes. He whined softly, and Estel slipped his arms around the furry little one. The pup whimpered again, but did not cringe from the refuge of the boy's arms. Rather he squirmed more deeply into them, sighed deeply and fell instantly asleep.

Estel was awed. He looked up at Elladan, then back at the sleeping pup, then at Elrohir. "Later, little cousin," said the first, "you will have the full story. Now it is meet that you procure for him a nest, warm and safe." Elrohir draped over the boy's shoulder the cloth in which he had wrapped the pup earlier, and Vaneta vacated a space at the fireside to accommodate an old basket. She placed another old cloth, soft and warm, into the bottom and gestured for Estel to place the pup within. The boy hesitated, loath to part from the warm little thing, but finally knelt to shift him into the depths of the basket. The pup made no sound, and barely settled himself to more and deeper sleep. Estel breathed and sat back on his heels, still gazing in wonder.

"My son," Elrond's words seemed to come from afar, "this young one has come to us for your company and friendship. Yavanna has opened his path to this valley, and I foresee many seasons for you and him together. You are agreed, I surmise."

Estel nodded, still unsure of proper words, and finally looked around at all with a dawning smile. "I welcome the wolf-pup," he said.

"Will you name him, Estel?" Lynael looked intently at the boy.

He closed his eyes tightly and searched within. "Keno…" he said finally. "He will be called Keno-thon, big, and Keni now, little. Is it well?"

Happy cries and sharp yaps floated up to the balcony of Gilraen's chamber, where she and the three healer-sisters were wont to enjoy the fresher hours past the summit of the arc Arien delineated daily in her journey over Arda. Milia strummed as always, though smiling a bit in rue of the lost quietude of the days.

"A handful only of days have passed," said Larat, "and the bond between them is entwined as the sinews of the mountain itself."

"Hah," laughed Milia oddly, usually given so to silent understanding, "they have taken the garden and made of it a battleground..."

Lynael patted her hand in sympathy, fully aware of the noisy impact on Milia's fine ear and sensitive nerves. "It will be but a passing sigh and soon forgotten, beloved," she said earnestly. "Soon the pup will have mountain-legs and they will haunt the woods from dawn to dusk, and you will dream again in the music of the stream and the garden."

Gilraen alone said nothing, seeming in fact far from the conversation around her. She stretched herself to follow with her eyes the romp of her boy and his friend, tireless both, tousled, speaking to each other in a language of their own. A shout, a stream of barks in answer, and the boy raced up towards the great terrace overlooking the rush of the river, the pup yowling shrilly as he galloped after.

"Such a change come over our quiet Estel," continued Lynael. "It seems his boyhood has awakened suddenly, in the company of another youngling. Poor dear, always in the company of grown ones with their cares and contemplations." She gazed out over the balcony railing towards the last of the two as they disappeared up the path. "A great change, truly," she echoed.

"I was sharing just such a reflection with Elladan and Elrohir," said Gilraen, "as he ran out this morn with the last bite still unswallowed." She smiled sadly. "Only now do I see something of what has been lacking for him during this time. Although the sons of Elrond say nay, that only now is Estel ripe for the caring of this companion. Perhaps that is so..." her words dribbled away into a sigh.

Larat made some mental calculations. "When the snows come, Keni will have his full stature, not quite, though barely half his weight as a grown wolf. He will be sensible and judicious, as becoming a child of Yavanna."

"I await with hungry joy," Milia murmured fervently.

"Even now, he is a bright little thing," said Gilraen with a sudden grin. "He runs about the entire house and outbuildings as if he had been birthed here. I believe he understands everything that Estel tells him. And especially I am touched by the response of Rogarin..." She trailed off again.

"That is a wise horse, with a heart as warm as the caress of Arien," Larat agreed, "and he loves his little rider. Now he steps with great care as the pup Keni dances around his great hooves, barking and tugging at the long hair upon them, Master Glorfindel has told me of their games."

"Estel binds Keni to his body and rides thus upon Rogarin," Gilraen laughed, "but it will be for a brief time only. Soon Keni will be as big and heavy as Estel, and then surpass him, and then later fall behind again, when the boy shoots up to become a man. Before long, as you count, my ladies," she finished again with a smile.

"And we know nothing as yet of whence he came, with the final shreds of strength of his noble mother," Lynael reflected. "Aülean believes that the barb of the arrow that drained her life was plunder from faraway and older battles. That the carrion-seekers of the orcs took it from a body and put it to use once again."

"Faraway, indeed," considered Larat, "far beyond the great Misty range. To the east and to the north, I would venture." She gazed at the peaks clothed in moist-bearing clouds. "Her nest would have been made in a sheltered dell of sorts, in the last of the forested slopes down to the Great River."

"So she ran, wounded and in despair, a fortnight's march, carrying her babe in her jaws yet gently!" cried Milia suddenly, stricken by the terrible images. "I have been unkind, sisters, my daughter, grumbling for the noise and disorder. Forgive me..."

"You have said nothing hurtful to Estel, dearest," Gilraen took her hand and pressed it. "He has nary a thought of any displeasure of yours."

"Nor will he," the songstress responded. "I do see now that Kementari herself opened the path to Imladris for this poor soul, not for her own refuge but for her child, Keni, the little one." Tears welled in her eyes. The four remained silent for a time.

"I have never known a wolf, thus closely," Gilraen mused aloud, "always they have been feared and avoided among our people."

"Verily," responded Lynael, "from the tale of Carcharoth to the fearsome wargs of goblin alliance, wolves have hardly been kept in our love."

"Nor in the love of the Dúnedain, my mothers," said the girl. "Recalleth thou that the first Aragorn, for whom Estel was a namesake, was slain by wolves while lost in the Ettenmoors?"

"A pact of reversal will be, perhaps, between this Aragorn and this wolf of Yavanna," Larat's eyes opened wide, "though neither has inkling of such a portent, nor of the dreadful antecedent for both their tribes."

"There is delicate balance between good and evil, my sisters, my daughter," said Lynael at length. "All the children of Kementari are, in their beginning, creatures of life. And though humble and simple, they too are bearers of the Divine Fire of Eru Ilúvatar, as much as the races of Elves and Men themselves." She stood and made her way back inside the chamber, seeking the small fire in the hearth. Without a word, the others rose and followed her.

"The workings of evil can twist even the First-born, and men, and wolves," she whispered into the fire, "and thus the wargs, who are as different from Keni as the Easterling wainriders are from the Dúnedain; and even, as orcs are from Elves."

"But how...?" Gilraen ventured a murmur of her own into the fire.

"The spirit of the predator, the meat-eater, is a field fertile for the devices of the Enemy," Lynael seemed to tremble, "thus comes the violation of the divine work of Kementari. We must spare no concern in the raising of this forest-child."

"I will call Estel to me for the making of a song for Keni," Milia breathed into the flames, "a song of power to protect him and make certain their friendship for the time the Blessed One has assigned to them."

"We must speak to Vaneta on this, that she find for him the balance of the green and the red in his foodstuffs," Larat reached into the fire and placed gently a cluster of fragrant herbs, the smoke of which twisted softly on its way up the vent.

"Here is Vaneta now," Gilraen said in surprise. The sisters exchanged quick looks and Lynael welcomed her in with a gesture.

The women shifted enough to make room for her at the fireside. She knelt between Gilraen and Larat, touched the hands of each of the four, and gazed into the fire. Long minutes went by, until she finally spoke.

"There is nothing I would not give, no task I would shrink from, to build the joy and the learning of this child. I foresee that with Keni, Estel will learn skills and secrets of the wild far beyond the lore of elves and men. He will learn also of aging, even of mortality, and the mystery of high devotion come from the simple hearts of beasts." She smiled at Gilraen and kissed her softly on the forehead.

"Each day, for many to come, these two will rise together and make their way through the hours together. You, my lady," she touched Gilraen's hand and spoke again into the fire, "will never fear for your son's comings and goings, for he will walk ever with the best of protectors. And are not safe and happy, the heart itself of company?"

A distant bell chimed, and the five rose to go. As they made their way to the hall of merry nourishment, their talk turned to lighter subjects and the laughter that flowed was richer and brighter than it had been for more time than any of them could recall.


End file.
